


Colette's

by mattzerella_sticks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accountant Castiel (Supernatural), Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - Diners, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Small Town, Bathroom Sex, Closeted Dean Winchester, Coming Out, Confused Castiel (Supernatural), Divorced Castiel (Supernatural), Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, F/M, Flashbacks, Flustered Dean Winchester, Friends to Lovers, Gay Dean Winchester, Gay Panic, Jealous Dean Winchester, Lesbian Claire Novak, M/M, Milkshakes, Miscommunication, Oblivious Castiel (Supernatural), Past Abuse, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining Dean Winchester, Queer Castiel (Supernatural), Recreational Drug Use, References to Canon, Self-Discovery, Single Parent Castiel (Supernatural), Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, genderbent robin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-28
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-12-27 07:11:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 112,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21114806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mattzerella_sticks/pseuds/mattzerella_sticks
Summary: DCBB 2019Castiel set up his own life far away from his hometown of Lebanon, in Pontiac with a daughter and a wife… and then he added a son and another wife when his first wife decided to leave him. Now, though, with two divorces under his belt and growing children, his life in Pontiac is too hectic to handle alone. Which means he’s returning to the one place he promised never to let his roots sink into again.However Lebanon isn’t the same town as he remembers. The 90′s and its turbulent change washing over even this small, Connecticut hamlet. People have come and gone. Like Cain, the gruff, old owner of an out-of-the-way diner called Colette’s. In his place is a man who has transformed the failing restaurant into the new town center.Dean Winchester was not what he expected, but exactly what he needed. As the year goes on, Dean and Castiel grow closer. Although nothing in Castiel’s life ever did run smooth. As amazing as Dean is, the man is an enigma. One Castiel can’t resist in figuring out.





	1. First Days & First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Hello Hello!
> 
> Welcome to my submission for the DeanCas Big Bang of 2-0-1-9!!!
> 
> Inspired by the 90's and the Gilmore Girls, take a trip to Lebanon, CT and enjoy the year in the life of Castiel Novak & Dean Winchester. I had a wild ride writing this behemoth, and took many turns to deliver this complete work of fiction to all of you. It wouldn't have been possible without my dear friend Jess, my talented partner for this challenge hit the books, and the fact I had a lot of free time on my hands this summer because of unemployment.
> 
> Link to both hit the books ao3 and tumblr posts of the wonderful artwork (so you can drop a bunch of kudos and likes/reblogs there):
> 
> Ao3 - https://archiveofourown.org/works/21182219
> 
> Tumblr - https://hitthebooksposts.tumblr.com/post/188602543819/deancasbb-colettes-art
> 
> Enjoy the story!

Castiel feels tiny fingers snake around his bare ankle, shaking him awake from slumber. Blinking bleary eyes open, he pushes up and glances at the foot of his bed to find his son Jack watching him. He clears his throat, voice still think with sleepiness. “What?” he asks, “What is it?”

“Claire’s been in the bathroom for a really long time.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel tamps down the sigh building in his chest. “Okay,” he says, “I’ll check on her… why don’t you get started on breakfast. Cereal?” Jack nods. “Great.”

He waits for Jack to leave before collapsing back onto the bed. Gaze darting over at the clock, Castiel sees hideous numbers taunting him in their neon green color: 7:15. Groaning, he rubs a tired hand over his stubbly cheeks. “Couldn’t I at least get another five minutes?”

Answering his own question, he drags himself to a sitting position and swings his legs onto the hardwood floors. He breathes in deep, letting the cold beneath his feet jolt him further into wakefulness.

Not yet ready to accept this morning’s invitation, Castiel looks over his shoulder at the other side of his bed. Instead of the mussed disarray of the left, the right rests undisturbed. Pillow smooth and cool as it always has been since he bought it and dropped it in the pale yellow case.

Castiel gladly steps away from the room after that. He hides a yawn on his way over to the bathroom door, forcing down the dregs of it while he knocks. “Claire,” he starts, “Claire, sweetie, what’s taking so long?”

He hears nothing save the showerhead running at full power. Sighing, Castiel bangs more loudly on the door. Ignored again. Castiel tries the doorknob. It’s unlocked.

“Claire,” he repeats, opening the door the tiniest crack, “Claire, how long have you been in here -”

“Oh my God!” Claire growls, the screeching of the showercurtain grating on his ears as she tugs on it while sticking her head out, “Can’t I get any privacy in this house?”

“How long have you been in here?”

“I just got in.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Her silence does.

Castiel pinches his brows, frown fixed across his lips. “Claire, I understand that you need more time with the bathroom, but I thought we discussed -”

“I know, I know,” she cuts him off, muffled by the shower curtain and the door, “Jack can use the downstairs bathroom though, that’s why we have one.”

“It still doesn’t mean you can abuse the upstairs bathroom.”

“Sorry it takes me a _ long _ time to shower, but _ I’m _ the only one with long hair in this house! Would you rather I was bald? Is that it? Because I can save us all the trouble and shave my head now!”

Her sarcasm pokes at his sides, tickling the corners of his mouth higher from the pit they fell into. “If that’s what you want to do you have my full support; I was a huge fan of Sinead O’Connor back in the day.”

The following scream was sweeter than any extra minutes of sleep he could have stolen.

“Wash your hair, shave it - I don’t care,” he tells her, “I’m going down to make breakfast. Do you want pancakes or waffles?” She chooses the latter after a brief interlude where all he heard was water drizzling onto porcelain. “Don’t take too long, otherwise they’ll get cold and soggy.”

A ‘whatever’ follows him on his way down the stairs. Chuckling softly, he makes it to the first floor and turns right into the kitchen. Jack sits at island in the center, a spoonful of Cookie Crisps halfway to his lips. Grinning cheekily he slowly lowers it into the already half-full bowl on the counter. Castiel looks from it to this son, then to the still open cereal box on the counter next to the gallon of milk. Finally his gaze settled on his son, brow arched spectacularly.

“I thought you’re only allowed cereal like that once a week?” Castiel says, “You had it yesterday.”

Jack shrugs. “Yesterday was Sunday. Today’s Monday.”

Castiel chooses not to argue with him, the point moot since he’s nearly finished with his breakfast. Instead he cleans up after him, storing the box in the pantry - on a _ higher _ shelf - and the milk in the fridge. Then he opens the freezer to grab a few Eggos for Claire. Immediately a frosty draft crawls up his thin boxer shorts, sending a shiver up his spine. He can’t close the drawer fast enough.

Yawning once more, he stuffs the waffles into the toaster and presses down on the handle.

Scratching at his chest, he moves to start on his own breakfast until he caught sight of his reflection in the nearby microwave.

His hand trails up from his white shirt to the heavy shadow on his jaw. He knew it’d been a while since his last shave, too busy with the move to properly deal with it. But in the weeks of worry, from packing everything away in boxes to stressful car rides filled with bickering children, going over paperwork and rearranging the furniture to his perfection after the movers left, he let his grooming fall off. It wasn’t only his beard that got away from him. His hair curled in wisps near his ears and around the nape of his neck. Thinking back to when he last went for a cut, he remembers it being early on the day of his court date for divorce proceedings. “You look nice,” Kelly said on the steps of the court house, smiling tight-lipped, “I hope you weren’t trying to _ impress _ your _ lawyer… _”

He laughed in a bittersweet fashion, fingers flexing in the pockets of his trench coat. “Magic can’t strike twice.”

She reached across and squeezed his bicep, the familiar gesture warm even after all that happened between them. “Take care of yourself _ and _ the kids… they’re going to need you.”

The waffles springing out of the toaster break him from his memory. Shaking his head he returns to thoughts of breakfast. Snatching the hot waffles, he flops them on a nearby paper plate. Claire descends the stairs at that moment, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe with a towel piled high atop her head.

“Just in time,” Castiel says, gesturing to her waffles, “Go wild.”

“Perfect,” she says, “Exactly the canvas I wanted to express my feelings of teenage rebellion.”

“I hope that doesn’t mean you’re using cigarettes instead of syrup.” She steps past him and over to the fridge. “Of course not,” he mumbled to himself, “there are no cigarettes in the house… I think?”

He assures himself of their lack of tobacco on his way to the coffeemaker. While the coffee percolates and drips into the pot Castiel searches for his mug. After digging through the cabinet above for quite some time, nearly crawling inside, he hears Claire clear her throat from behind.

“Dishwasher,” Claire says, squirting syrup onto her plate so the waffles drown, “You must not have emptied it last night.”

“I thought you or Jack were supposed to.”

“I put them in.”

“And Jack?”

Jack stirs his cereal, “I helped her!”

Castiel checks the dishwasher, finding his mug and a bunch of other clean dishes, plates, and cutlery. “And it was my job to empty it?”

Claire nods, tearing into her first waffle. “Yeah, you said you’d take care of it so Jack and I could go to sleep early before our first day of school.”

He vaguely recalls saying that. But it’s followed by him sifting through his mail, finding the heavy letter filled with photocopied documents finalizing his divorce. Then came the bottle of whiskey he hid in his study and little else after.

“...I’ll empty it later,” he says, removing his mug and closing the dishwasher. Castiel places it next to the coffeemaker, the sky blue ceramic stood against the dark granite countertop. “But speaking of first days,” he turns to his children, “Are you two excited?”

“First day at a new school - sorry, a new _ high _ school - in a small town?” Claire scoffs, “Sure, I could _ barely _ close my eyes last night I was so excited.”

Castiel tamps down the urge to roll his eyes, sure that doing so many this early in the day would cause them to fly from his head. Instead he leans against the counter and tries to break through her prickly outer shell. “Carver Edlund Academy is a great place, Claire, I’m sure you’ll fit in,” he tells her, chest puffing up with pride, “And as a _ legacy _ student you’ll have an even easier time.”

“Great,” she says, smile dripping with enough acid to melt through the floorboards, “at least I’ll always have a seat in the _ teacher’s lounge _.” She stuffs the last of her waffle into her mouth and tosses the plate in the garbage. “I need to get ready, that uniform isn’t going to put itself on.”

She stomps up the stairs, a signal to Castiel as how great a day he’s about to have. Luckily the coffee finishes draining and he can start drinking it.

“_ I’m _ excited to start today,” Jack squeaks in, brown milk sloshing around his now cookie-less bowl, “I get to show off the awesome backpack mom sent me!”

Castiel smiles, ruffling his son’s hair. “You’re all ready?”

“Yep!”

“You sure?” he asks, “There’s nothing you might be forgetting?”

Jack frowns, forehead creasing as he thinks. Castiel watches the smoke pour from his boy’s ears fondly, sipping at his coffee. Then, suddenly, he jumps from his seat in a panic causing Castiel to spill some of his coffee to the floor. “Tissues!” he cries, “I need to bring tissues!”

“Fu-frick, Jack,” Castiel grumbles, wiping at the rivulets of coffee sliding down his chin, “_ Inside _ voice.”

“But what about the _ tissues _?”

“I’m sure we have an extra box, check under the sink.” They move as a unit, Jack searching behind the cabinet door under the sink while Castiel tears off a piece of paper towel to sop up the mess.

“Found some!” Jack crows successfully, jutting one hand back holding the box: small and rectangular in shape, with little swirls all over it.

“Thank God,” Castiel sighs, “the last thing I need is to make a detour for _ tissues _.” Standing, he stretches his back and drops the dirty towel next to his mug.

Jack bounces back over to his spot at the breakfast bar, collecting his bowl and placing it over in the sink. “I’m gonna go double check my bag,” he tells him, “Make sure I have _ everything _.”

“You do that.”

“And dad,” Jack scrunches his face up, “Are you really going to drive me to school looking like that?”

Castiel glances down at his outfit, only now noticing the coffee stain on his shirt. “No, I’ll be right behind you to get changed.”

“Great!”

As Jack runs from the room, tissues under his arm, Castiel calls out. “Don’t overpack! We wouldn’t want a repeat of last year!” He isn’t sure Jack heard him, and already pictures his son struggling down the steps with his bag careful not lean too far forward and fall like he did on their old porch back in Pontiac.

Even with a change of scenery, his children are still the same. Claire his precocious and smartass teen, puberty only stoking the flames to temper and sharpen her silver tongue. Jack easily excitable and eager, not a cloud to dampen his sunny disposition. There were doubts that the move could negatively impact them and they would have trouble adjusting. Fears of his children saying they hated him, running away, or growing up saying they resented him for this kept him up most nights in the lead up to the move. Instead of sleeping he would move through the rooms of their old home, going through photo albums on the plush armchair in the living room. Whenever Castiel had a chance to think uninterrupted he would hear a nagging voice in the back of his mind telling him he made a mistake.

But in the comfortable early morning silence of his kitchen Castiel convinces himself he made the right choice returning to his old hometown.

It’s shattered by a loud thump from upstairs, followed by Jack yelling, “I’m okay!”

Castiel glances at his coffee pot. “I’m going to need a whole lot more of this…”

* * *

The doorbell echoes in the near empty household, bouncing around until finally reaching the heavy oak doors of Castiel’s study. Muffled, but not deterred, the ringing muscles itself through the obstacle and reaches the lone occupant.

Castiel glances up from his open ledger, frowning. Not expecting any guests, he sits and wonders why someone would ring his doorbell when it happens again. Persistent, Castiel thinks, better to answer than to hope for them to leave.

He places his glasses down on the ledger and heads over to the front door. Opening it, Castiel comes face to face with people he’s seen far too much of in the short few days since they’ve settled down in Lebanon.

“Castiel!” his father, Chuck, says, “We were in the _ neighborhood _ and… you’re not busy are you?” He and his mother, Becky, wait huddled together with bright smiles on their faces, both laughing in a Stepfordian way. Castiel dams up the full body shudder wanting to run through him.

“We saw this and thought it’d be nice to share,” Becky tells him, holding the box of Entenmann’s crumb cake like a peace offering. It’s a sweet gesture if he hadn’t already guessed the pastry as an empty excuse. The seal had recently been broken, obvious given the missing slices already cut, leaving the cake a pale comparison to its former shape.

Castiel grimaces, “I’d love to, but -” They don’t wait, barging past him and into the house. “But I’m in the middle of going over some documents for work so I can’t right now,” he finishes lamely, mumbling to himself.

He shuts the door after them, following and finding them already in the kitchen. Chuck lays out plates while Becky serves each of them a slice. “Hurry up, Castiel,” Becky calls to him, “The longer it sits the staler it gets!”

Coming to terms with their arrival, Castiel takes a seat at the bar and thanks his father when he hands over a fork. Chuck and Becky sit opposite him, waiting a beat before eating to stare at him unnervingly.

Sighing, he scrapes the plate in annoyance. “Is there something on my face?” he asks.

“Sorry, sorry,” Becky apologizes, covering his hand with hers and halting any progress it could make towards him, “We’re just… _ so happy _ to have you back home.”

Like a broken record Becky spins back onto the same tune. Castiel has become quite familiar with those words seeing as they came up in every conversation he has had with his mother since the phone call he made to tell her about his plans to move.

“I know,” Castiel says, “I’m happy to be back, too.”

“Then why didn’t you come back sooner?” Chuck cuts in, chewing through a bite of cake, “Pontiac’s got _ nothing _ on Lebanon.”

Castiel crams a forkful into his mouth to prevent himself from answering. Where his mother can’t stop expressing her joy in having him live nearby again, Chuck uses his time to chastise Castiel on not moving earlier.

“I mean,” he continues, “After your first divorce we figured you’d be back - raising a girl as a single dad was gonna be tough and Becky and I were ready to spoil her _ rotten _.”

“We were!” Becky nods, “I was already digging through some of Anna’s things - her old dresses, the princess tea set -”

“But then you told us about Kelly,” Chuck scoffs, “And while we still thought having you here was better for everybody you couldn’t be convinced.”

Becky shrugs. “When you put your foot down, you do it in cement - it’s so hard to move!”

“Doesn’t matter now,” Chuck says, “you’re here and we couldn’t be happier. Now the whole Shurley clan is back where they belong!”

Castiel bites down hard enough his teeth vibrate against the metal fork. While a tightly packed nest was his parents’ vision of happiness, Castiel squirms at the reminder. He moved to Pontiac after college so he could spread his wings; the offer from a large accounting firm the perfect excuse. Where he could become someone more than ‘Chuck & Becky’s youngest’.

Back in Lebanon, with two divorces and a tail tucked under his belt, sitting across from his parents’ wide-eyed expectant faces, Castiel reminds himself moving was the best choice for his kids.

“Speaking of the family,” Castiel says, dropping his fork onto his empty plate, “I was busy looking over Gabe’s finances from years prior -”

“He’s doing well, isn’t he?” Becky talks over him, looking at Chuck, “Some days I can’t go anywhere without having one lady or another stopping me and asking if I by chance knew any of his recipes. Every time I have to practically beat them off with my purse, saying how I’ve never been a good baker a day in my life! His talent comes from either some relative or God!”

“Yes, well, he might have great word-of-mouth,” Castiel grumbles, “but I’ve noticed a slight discrepancy in his budget. He’s spending _ way _ too much on certain ingredients, and -”

Chuck waves him off, “Oh that’s not too big a deal, Castiel. Gabe’s not complaining -”

“There’s always room for improvement, and if he makes these small tweaks he can -”

“Have you met any of your neighbors yet, Castiel?” Becky asks him, switching topics with ease.

Castiel splutters, caught off guard. “Neighbors, Castiel,” she repeats, “it doesn’t look good keeping to yourself. Makes you seem… _ anti-social _.”

“Like you don’t want to be part of the community,” Chuck adds, using his fork to cut into Becky’s untouched slice. “No one wants to be the neighbor who acts _ un-neighborly _.”

“I… I haven’t had the time,” Castiel tells them, “getting everything set up, helping Jack and Claire enroll in their respective schools… I mean maybe one or two stopped by but it’s been such a blur I can’t really remember.”

“I know!” Becky claps her hands together, “You can throw a party!”

“A… a what?”

“A party,” she says, leaning forward enough for the sugary frosting of the crumb cake to dust off on her pink turtleneck sweater, “A ‘welcome to the neighborhood’ party where you can re-introduce yourself and your kids to everyone. We could set up games, and make food... or cater… or maybe have it be potluck so everyone can bring something, and - oh we can go shopping for party clothes! I’m already picturing the cutest dress I can buy for Claire.”

“Mom,” Castiel winces, “Mom, I _ really _ don’t think a party is the best thing right now. There’s still so much that needs to be done and… well, I can meet my neighbors on my own time.”

“But this will be so much easier,” she carries on with stars in her eyes, “you’ll have all of us there so we can make introductions. And if you see someone who might… _ catch your eye _, we’ll help you move things along and -”

“Wait,” he stops her, “Are you… is _ that _ what this is about?” Castiel draws back, gripping the counter top and releasing his tension there; squeezing until his fingers feel numb.

He figured his parents would have some tact, given that he hasn’t been back for long; Castiel put too much faith in them keeping their hands off of his personal life. Especially since they foreshadowed it so wonderfully by charging into his house like rampaging elephants.

Chuck sighs, smile falling for the first time since stepping into his house. “Son, we understand how hard it might be -”

“No,” he says, “Like I told you I’m not interested in dating anyone right now.”

“But Castiel,” Becky tries, “Two children on your own? Even with all of us it won’t be an easy job. And don’t you want someone who you can wake up to _ every _ morning?” She reaches to her right and squeezes Chuck’s hand, resting her head against his shoulder in such a blatant display it rolls Castiel’s stomach.

He pinches his brow. “I’ve had that… _twice_… but - well, I’m not interested in putting myself back in the field yet. What with the divorce being so fresh -”  
“You and Kelly have been separated for over six months!” Chuck argues, “That’s more than enough time for you to put yourself together and find somebody new. I mean, you didn’t even wait for the ink to dry with Amelia before running off with Kelly.”

He flushes, uncaring to how the conversation escaped his control. “And like you’ve said, look how _ that _ turned out. So excuse me if I take a little more time before I consider putting myself in such a vulnerable position - especially since I have my _ children _ to think about.”

They retreat to their respective corners before the discussion turned sour. Castiel would see it as an apocalyptic warning if his father stormed from his house now, given how their arguments ended similarly in the past. There would be time for that to happen. But only after he’s been living in his house for a few months - hopefully even a year.

Or at least a couple more weeks, Castiel rationalizes while watching Chuck stab at Becky’s crumb cake, having fully stolen her plate.

Becky, however, waits for them to settle before working to ease the raw nerves between the two men. Her lips twitch nervously, twisting her wedding ring over and over again. “Speaking of your kids, Castiel,” she says, “Where are they?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “They’re at school?”

“Still?”

“_ Still _?” Castiel parrots, “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s _ well _ past the time for kids to be out of school, isn’t that right Chuck?” she turns to her husband, “At least, from what _ I _remember!”

Chuck checks his watch, grunting in the affirmative. “Half past three - school’s been done for over an hour.”

Paling, Castiel glances over to the clock hanging beside the entrance to the dining room. Its hands match exactly with what Chuck said.

He rushes to stand, startling his parents.

“Castiel?” Becky asks, “Castiel is something wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” he says, face frozen in an illusion of cheerfulness, “Nothing I, um… I remembered that I forgot to go and - and get something.”

“You did?” Becky frowns, “What did you _ forget _?”

“Well I…” Castiel struggles to land on his feet with a believable lie, eyes darting around for something to aid him. Spotting the boxy television in the nearby living room, the words spring forth unexpectedly. “I promised the kids we could get something special from the local video store. Y’know, to help celebrate a great first day?”

Becky rolls her eyes, worry fading easily. “That’s not so bad! Although Harmon’s closed a few years ago, you’ll have to go to that big chain store - it’s where old Mr. Jackson used to sell mattresses.”

“Don’t know why you’d waste money on those kinds of places,” Chuck grouses, “It’s all a fad. Sooner or later that store’ll shudder its doors all the same.”

“I don’t know about that!” Becky chuckles, laying a hand on Chuck’s shoulder, “With a name like Blockbuster it’s sure to be a hit! But what do you think Castiel?”

Castiel pauses in shrugging on his jacket, checking back into the conversation. “What?”

“Do you think Blockbuster should be worried?”

“About what?” Shaking his head, he grabs for his car keys from the nearby dish and paces towards his door, “Never mind. I need to go before it closes. Do you think you can lock up?”

“How?”

“With the key I know you’ve made behind my back!”

He doesn’t stay to listen to their retreating calls, instead jogging over to his beige sedan and hopping in. Castiel turns the key, waiting for the engine to work through its sputtering coughs and shift into a beautiful hum. When it does, he backs out swiftly and hurries to his children’s respective schools.

Castiel prays nothing bad happened to them while their horrible father left them waiting, wondering if he would ever show up. “How did Kelly ever do this?” he mumbles to himself, pressing harder onto the gas pedal and shooting down the street ten miles above the speed limit.

Every second counted.

* * *

Castiel psyched himself up in his car, however all that collected calm falls apart when he steps one foot into the sheriff’s office. He glances around, wide-eyed, for the first available officer he can find.

One man towers above the rest, standing at the counter with intense focus on the clipboard in front of him. Castiel rushes over, clinging to the countertop with nervous energy. He clears his throat, ducks his head as much as he can until he meets the deputy’s eyes hidden under the wide brim of his hat.

“Excuse me,” he starts, “Um - are you busy?”

The deputy shrugs, tapping at his clipboard. “Just filling out some forms. Why? What do you need?” He tucks the pencil behind his ear, joining the curled hair already there, and flashes an eager, helpful smile Castiel’s way. It speaks to his professionalism that he doesn’t arrest Castiel given how haggard and crazed he looks. Probably seen men look exactly like him, albeit for different reasons.

“Thank you, Deputy - uh,” he checks the name stitched on his breast - _ S. Winchester _ \- “Winchester.” The name tickles the base of his skull, but he ignores it to focus on more pressing matters. “I seem to have a problem.”

“I figured since you’re… y’know, in the sheriff’s office?”

“Right, right…” He bites his lip, drumming his fingers on the counter.

Deputy Winchester sighs, boyish dimples dropping from his face. “Why don’t you take a deep breath and then tell me? Nothing’s gonna be solved with you worked up like this.”

He nods, gasping down a refreshing lungful of air while he tries to slow the frantic pacing his thoughts worked themselves into. “My kids,” Castiel finally says, “I can’t find my kids.”

Winchester frowns, face scrunching into something more serious. “That is a problem. Where were they last?”

“School,” Castiel tells them, “I was supposed to pick them up from school -”

“But you didn’t -”

“I… forgot,” Castiel says, blushing, “Usually their mother did, or the nanny when I… anyway we just moved here, and I work from home. and…”

“Did you try the schools?”

Castiel sighs, agreeing. He went to Jack’s first, since Castiel was more than confident Claire could take care of herself. And because her school was farther away. It’d look worse if Castiel went for her before getting the youngest.

He parked sloppily, stumbling out of the car and over to the front entrance. There weren’t any kids lingering by the fence, so he hoped that meant Jack was inside waiting on a plastic chair.

He wasn’t.

“I’m sorry,” a receptionist, Ms. Cortese, said, “There are no more students here, they were all picked up?”

“How? I wasn’t here.”

“You can ask his teacher,” she told him, “It’s school policy that all our teachers watch over their students after school until they’re picked up. If anyone knows it’ll be her.” Ms. Cortese pointed him towards the third graders’ classroom, and he quickly walked over to the door.

Missouri Moseley looked unsurprised to see him there. “From what your daughter told me this isn’t usually your job.”

“Claire was here?”

“You know any other blonde girls with bad attitudes in school uniforms?”

It was an apt description of his daughter. “Do you know where they went?”

“They hopped into a silver Jeep and drove off,” she told him, walking him over to his door, “It’ll all be fine though, your kids are in good hands.”

“I don’t know what you -”

“Why don’t you try the sheriff’s office,” she said, “They can help you better than I can.”

Winchester struggles to fight back a smile, three of his fingers taped securely over his mouth. Castiel gapes at the sight, unsure how his story could be in any way amusing.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” Winchester says, snorting, “So Missouri said Jack and Claire drove off in a silver Jeep?”

“Yes! But I don’t know anyone who does!”

“Wait here a moment,” he tells him, “I need to double-check something with the Sheriff…” Winchester pushes away from the counter, walking over to the closed door of his boss. He knocks on it twice, waiting for an answer before entering.

Castiel waits, nerves rattling around; the longer the Deputy confers with the Sheriff the more his body feels like it’ll burst like a poorly shaken bottle of soda. Finally, Sam returns from the Sheriff’s office. “Thanks Jody,” he says, “Wanted to make sure!”

“Well?” Castiel asks when he returns, “What did you ask?”

“I think I know where your kids are.”

“Really?”

He nods. “Yep. Come on, we’ll go together. You drove here, right?” Castiel answers him. “Good, didn’t want to have to drag the car out.” Winchester starts towards the door, pausing when he notices Castiel still frozen where he was. “Coming?”

Castiel breaks from his stupor. “O-of course.” He exits alongside the Deputy, padding down his pockets, searching for his keys. When they arrive at his car, his hands remain empty. “I… it seems I’ve misplaced my keys.”

“You mean the ones still in the car?”

“What?”

Winchester jerks an amused thumb inside the cabin, where the keys rest inside the ignition. “You’re lucky we caught the car thieves months ago otherwise you’d be down a couple kids _ and _ a ride home.”

Castiel’s blush deepens to a severe red. “I swear I’m not usually this forgetful. It’s just -”

“You’re new,” Winchester finishes, opening the passenger door, “I get it.” He slides in, slamming the door behind him. Castiel races to the other side, taking the wheel and buckling up.

“Where am I going?”

“Take a right and head straight for a few blocks.”

Castiel shifts into drive and begins the route towards wherever the Deputy leads him. However in the few seconds they’re alone in the car, the silence bears down heavily on his shoulders. So Castiel asks, “What do you mean?”

“About what?”

“Getting it,” he says, “When I said I was new?”

“Oh,” Winchester smiles, easy and friendly like before, “That I’m fairly new myself.”

“Really?”  
“Yeah, moved here ‘bout five years ago with my brother.”

“Well, that _ does _ count for new around these parts…”

“It’s a tight knit community, that it is,” Winchester chuckles, “Probably took half my time here for people to start calling me by my first name instead of Deputy.”

Castiel huffs a small laugh. “What _ is _ your name?”

“Sam,” he tells him, “Sam Winchester.”

“Castiel Novak,” Castiel nods, hand moving in an abortive gesture before he remembers to keep both on the wheel.

“Novak?” Sam asks, “You wouldn’t happen to be related to -”

“Whichever Novak you’re thinking of,” he interrupts, “the answer is yes.”

“Then you’re not as new as you said.”

“‘New’ might have been entirely subjective on my part, since I’ve spent a fair share of my time growing up in this town. Only just came back because of… _ recent developments _.”

“So what you’re saying is,” Sam starts, grin stretching wide across his face, “that technically I’m still the _ new _ guy ‘round these parts?”

“Until some other unlucky fellow happens to run out of gas within town limits.”

“It isn’t so bad,” he says, “I mean, everyone here seems friendly enough. Although maybe they gave us the benefit of the doubt given they knew my grandfather…”

“Your grandfather lived here? What was his name?”

“Henry. Henry Winchester?” Sam says, “He was the town librarian up until he died -”

“Winchester!” Castiel cries, slamming his hand against the wheel, “I thought that name sounded familiar! I remember your grandfather… he was a really nice man, although a bit strange when it came to books…” Thinking back Castiel reflects on summer days where Becky would lead him, hand in hand, to the town’s library. Henry would greet them after the pleasant little chime above the door chirped rebelliously within the quiet confines. And when Castiel gathered as many books as his little arms could carry he would check them out, reading aloud each book and giving tiny little reviews. The memories turn sour, however, as he remembers the most important and recent fact about Henry. His expression falters, mouth fading into a small line. “My mom filled me in when he passed… I’m sorry for your loss.”

Sam waves his words away as if they were common house flies. “It’s okay. Ol’ Henry was getting on in years. Better he passed peacefully the way he did then in some hospital or whatever. Plus he left us the house, and me and my brother moved in right after the funeral.”

“Wow, must have been some house…”

“Better than where we were coming from…”

Castiel glances at the young Deputy from the corner of his eye, the first instance of his positive demeanor flatlining into something more guarded and cautious. With everyone in town usually so open and forthcoming, it was rare to find some people with secrets. But they existed; and if Castiel learned anything from his years outside of Lebanon it was that people deserve to keep some cards to themselves.

Instead of pushing, Castiel sets his gaze on the road and asks Sam, “Where are we going?”

“Oh, we’re heading to the diner near the edge of town, Colette’s?”

“Colette’s?” Castiel asks, “That’s where my kids are?”

Sam shrugs, “They’d’ve least spent some time there. Everyone does, seeing as it’s one of the most popular places in town.”

“Colette’s?” he snorts incredulously, “Popular?”

“I take it that wasn’t the case back then?”

“I mean if you wanted something to eat sure,” Castiel says, “But it felt like more of a last resort. There was always something about the owner - Cain - that rubbed me the wrong way…” Dipping back in time allows Castiel to see Cain’s surly expression with ease, as a man with that heavy a brow was hard to forget. Staring from behind the kitchen window, watching customer after customer order, was enough to turn any appetite. His older brother Luke told him that, in actuality, Cain was the originator of his namesake. And his penance for killing Abel was travelling from town to town and making greasy food for minimum wage. When older, Castiel realized more that Luke’s stories were more outlets of frustration for being forced to wash dishes one summer after vandalizing his sign. Still every story had its kernels of truth.

“Colette’s isn’t that bad,” Sam tugs him from the past, “and neither is the owner, if you ask me.”

“You and Cain are friends?”

“Well, he was closer with my brother,” Sam admits, “Probably why he sold it to him.”

The dropped crumb of information startles Castiel. “Cain sold Colette’s?”

“Yeah. Now he’s somewhere up in Montana on a farm; he sends us postcards every now and then.” Sam leans forward in his seat, tapping on the dashboard, “There’s a spot up ahead; pull in.”

Castiel finds what he saw and parks with ease, the conversation greatly affecting his nerves. Now he feels calm enough to think logically about the situation at hand. In fact, his previous actions leave him embarrassed; in the back of his mind he files away an idea to apologize to Miss Mosely and the receptionist for his crazed behavior.

“Come on,” Sam says, halfway out of the car, “I think we can still make it in time for the lunch special.” Castiel scurries to keep up with his long strides, keys in hand.

The sign stands strikingly as it always has; the post tall and painted the color of the sky, like the red letters on the white sign were floating above the building. Beside it rests the diner the name belongs to.

Through the wide glass windows Castiel sees a strange sight from what he recalls. Cain’s ownership saw a maximum of ten people inside the diner during its busiest hours. Now it looks like every booth is packed, and wait staff flit between guests with notepads and menus in hand. Walking inside, the vinyl waiting area has its own little group as patrons chat while hoping for others to finish up soon so they can eat.

Castiel’s jaw hangs noticeably and _ very _ unattractively as he takes all this in. “Wow,” he mutters, “your brother must be something else… to turn Colette’s into… _ this _.”

Sam rolls his eyes. “He’s okay, could use an updated discography but everyone has their flaws.” He needles him in the side, “What do your kids look like?”

The elbow to his side reminds him why they were there in the first place, and his mind shifts from appreciation to scrutiny. Instead of answering him, Castiel squints across the room at every face - hoping to find one that’s familiar to him.

A man in soft flannel and a trucker’s cap pushes up from the counter, and that’s when Castiel finds Jack.

His boy sits, with a milkshake and a workbook opened in front of him, writing furiously if his look of concentration is anything to go by. Castiel’s body shudders with intense relief, his soul rolling over ten times inside his body knowing that Jack was safe and well.

Castiel strides across the room, cutting between tables and knocking waiters off their usual path as he walks the fastest route possible to his boy.

“Jack!” Castiel calls, choked up and voice rougher than usual, “Jack, thank God you’re okay!”

Jack perks up, twisting in his stool towards him. “Dad!” he greets him, waving frantically, “Dad! Did you know this place was here? They serve milkshakes and pie and burgers and -”

Castiel hugs Jack close to his chest, dropping a kiss to the crown of his head. “I’m so sorry I forgot to pick you up. I promise it won’t happen again.”

He giggles in Castiel’s grip, squirming around. “It’s okay, Claire said you might do that. S’why she came to get me!”

Remembering his other child, Castiel begins the search anew. “Where is she?” he asks, “Did Claire drop you off? Or is she in the bathroom, or -”

A hand taps at his shoulder and he whirls around to face the owner. A man with brilliant green eyes and a soft grin that makes the freckles on his cheeks bounce as he speaks says, “Claire’s over in one of the booths with Alex.” Then he points somewhere nearby where his daughter covers her mouth as an unexpected spray of milkshake squirts out her nose, the brunette across from her nearly falling from her seat.

Loose ends tied up, Castiel’s heart descends from his throat to its cozy place in its chest. He sags against the counter, sliding into the unoccupied stool. “You’re both here… good. Then I guess I didn’t mess things up too badly.” Castiel drags a hand down his face, glancing towards the man behind the counter and meeting his curious gaze. “You probably think I’m a bad father, don’t you?”

“With the way you nearly bowled over my staff to get here?” the man chuckles, “Nah, you’re a good one.”

Castiel apologizes, a faint blush tinging his cheeks. “Usually I’m more put together than this…” He trails off, hoping the other man would fill in the blank.

Jack does for him. “This is Dean!” he supplies, “He’s been helping me with my math homework.”

Castiel’s eyes widen in surprise, casting them onto the other man who has stolen Castiel’s pink cheeks for his own purpose. “Really?”

“He’s super smart with numbers - almost as good as you are!”

“Numbers are numbers,” Dean says, “At least there aren’t any letters yet.”

“Still you didn’t have to help,” he tells him, holding a hand out, “Castiel.”

“Dean,” he repeats, shaking his hand. “Although,” Dean continues, squeezing his fingers, “you already knew that, because of Jack and…”

“Dean!” Sam barks from nearby, “let the man have his hand back.”

He peers behind Castiel at the deputy, glaring at him. “What are you doing here?”

Sam steps closer, putting a friendly arm around Castiel’s shoulder. “I was helping Castiel here find his kids.When he said they were spotted in a silver Jeep I knew exactly where Alex was going.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I think half the reason Jody bought that ugly car was so she could keep track of Alex.”

“Half? That’s probably the _ only _ reason.” Castiel’s stare bounces between the two, their obvious familiarity confusing to him. Sam notices his helpless expression, however, and takes pity on him. “Remember how I said I moved here with my brother… this is my brother.”

“Oh.” Looking closer, it was obvious that the two men were related to one another. “So you were the one who bought this place from Cain.”

Dean’s brows fall curiously. “Yeah,” he drawls, “Although how do you know that? Pretty small town… and I would’ve remembered a face like yours.”

The comment strikes curiously at Castiel, the edges of it curled so that it brushes up against him flatteringly. Before he could contemplate it further Sam barges in with an explanation.

“He’s a Novak,” Sam says, “Moved back into town recently.”

“Really? A Novak?” Dean frowns, “Didn’t realize there was another one.”

“Novak’s are as infinite as air and disappointment,” Castiel tells them, “If you turn your head two more spring up where you just looked.”

Dean laughs, head ducking down to stifle the sudden sound. Sam chuckles more conservitavely, although his mirthful eyes give way to how truly he enjoyed the joke.

“Speaking of Novaks though,” Castiel sighs, glancing towards his car, “I’m pretty sure I left two unsupervised in my house, even though I told them to leave. If I want all my furniture to stay exactly where I placed it I’ll have to be heading home.” He turns to the Winchester brothers. “Sam, thank you for helping me find my kids. And Dean… thank you for watching them.” He slips his hand into his pocket, digging for his wallet. “How much do I owe you,” he asks, “for the milkshake and anything else he might have -”

Dean reaches and stops him with a hand on his arm. “No charge.”

“...Really?”

“Yeah, I mean it was, like, _ two _ milkshakes. I make enough that I’m not being put out. Besides,” he glances at Jack, “I got to hang with a really cool kid, that’s more than enough payment.”

Jack preens at the compliment. “Thanks for all your help Dean!”

“Anytime, kid.”

Castiel smiles, heart warming at the scene. Dean’s eyes flit from Jack to Castiel’s, and they stare at each other a beat longer than necessary. However the moment ends when Dean blinks and he jerks his hand away, freckles disappearing under a sea of red skin.

Unsure of what to do next, Castiel starts over to Claire. He stands over the two girls, arms crossed, and waiting expectantly. Claire stiffens, craning her neck up to sheepishly face her father.

“Dad,” she starts, “What are you doing here?”

He shrugs. “I was about to pen a letter to whoever makes milk cartons but decided to stop for a bite to eat first.” Castiel frowns, squinting at her. “Why weren’t you or your brother home?”

“Because you forgot to pick us up?” That was the wrong thing to say and he makes it well known by the iciness of his glare. “Okay, so I knew you wouldn’t remember to get us. But luckily I made a friend - a _ friend _ \- Alex, here,” Alex waves at him nervously, “and she offered to come with me to get him _ and _ drive us home. She lives two blocks away apparently! But we were halfway home when Jack said he was hungry, and Alex said she knew of a place where we could eat and we… lost track of time?”

Seeing her suffer enough, Castiel drops his facade and drops a tired hand on her shoulder. “While I’m glad you made a friend, please let me know when you’re making spur of the moment decisions.”

“But how can I tell you if they’re spur of the moment?”

“Call the house phone, leave a message,” he says, “Now say goodbye, we’re going home.”

She does, sliding out of the booth. Alex returns the gesture, even offering one to Castiel alongside an, “It was nice meeting you!”

By the time Claire has her bag in hand Jack teeters from side to side with his enormous knapsack on his back. Castiel ushers them both towards the exit, shuffling behind them.

As they leave, an urge shoots across his mind telling him to look back. Too exhausted to ignore it, Castiel does so and sees something strange. Sam glowers heavily at Dean, leaning across the counter to whisper harshly at him. Dean says nothing, scrubbing the space Jack sat with an off-white rag. His stilted movements clue him in as to how unwelcome Sam’s words are.

Suddenly Dean glances towards the side and their eyes lock again. Castiel smiles and waves at him one last time, delighting in how easily the movement breathes life into Dean’s eyes. With that, Castiel hurries after his kids - not keen to lose track of them again after finding them.

They’re halfway home when Jack asks Castiel if he can go back tomorrow. “Dean’s really nice!” he says, “And his milkshakes are good!”

Castiel watches his son bounce around in the rearview mirror, the large grin on his face reminiscent to ones he wore back in Pontiac. While he smiled more than Claire since the move, they weren’t as wide as usual. But Colette’s served him too happy children for the price of a few years off his life. It was a fair exchange.

“I don’t know,” Castiel says, dividing his attention between his children, “Will you be going back there with Alex tomorrow?”

She startles. “You’re letting me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“I feel like this is something normal teens get grounded for.”

Castiel sighs. “As long as it’s a one time thing I’m willing to let it slide. It _ was _ a one time thing… right?”

“Absolutely!”

“Then good.” Pulling into his driveway, Castiel realizes that he’ll be seeing Dean more often, and the thought somehow sets his heart on fire while also dousing it at the same time. Unfortunately he can’t comb through the confusing sensations since he catches a glimpse of his parents settled comfortably across the sofa in the living room.

Castiel switches to reverse and slowly exits the driveway.

“Dad?” Claire asks, “What are we doing?”

“We’re going to Blockbuster to pick out a movie.”

Jack gasps, “Really!”

“Yes. But after today _ I _ will be choosing what movie we rent.”

He’s never heard such a demure response to a trip to Blockbuster, but his kids keep gifting him surprises. Immediately he racks his brain for genres that he might want to see, and the task does a good job of drawing his thoughts away from Dean Winchester.

But not entirely.


	2. Financial Consultant, At Your Service

Castiel taps the papers together against the smooth surface of his sister’s table, straightening the stack and running his fingers along the edges to make sure each page laid over the other perfectly. “So,” he starts, “it took me awhile but I think I’ve found something that you should know -”

“Oh, Cassie, business talk now?” Anna rolls her eyes, serving him a slice of cake with an extra helping of whipped cream, “Couldn’t you save that for… the morning?”

He raises a sharp brow at her suggestion. “What morning would work for you? Because the last three times I tried calling you ‘in the _ morning’ _ -” his pronounced quotes highlight the underlying annoyance seeping into his words, “one of your employees tells me you’re _ busy _.”

“Because I am,” Anna insists, cutting into her own dessert with her fork, “Which is why I don’t need you nosing into my shop’s finances.”

“But you paid me to do so!”

“I paid you to tell me I’m doing everything right,” she says, “And if whatever you’re about to say isn’t that then I don’t want to hear it.”

Castiel sighs, slumping back against the chair. Glumly he pokes at his cake, stuffing a large chunk of it into his mouth. He should be used to it, he thinks, but hearing it from Anna makes the precarious Jenga tower his patience built topple over itself. The last Novak child, who like all the others _ paid _ him to look over their business’s records, admits they have no interest in hearing any of the suggestions he has.

When they first approached him, he turned them down. “We’re family,” he said, “I can go through your records for _ free _. Why should you pay me?” But they persisted, not willing to hand over the necessary documents unless he accepted their money. Two weeks before the move he accepted their deal.

Truly it was busy work. Anytime Castiel wasn’t worrying about the move he would pull out the only papers he didn’t shove into a cardboard box and set to studying them. Numbers calmed his nerves. None of the other Novaks understood how that was possible, seeing as their aptitude for the subject ranged from poor to non-existent. “You can’t get the same feeling from reading a good book?” Chuck would ask, a copy of one of his own writings bent in his grip.

Castiel frowned and shook his head. Reading wasn’t for relaxing, it served the opposite purpose. Traveling to far off places and going on adventures, getting lost in different worlds and kingdoms, set his tiny mind alight and heart racing. Going over equations and solving for variables grounded him; reminded him to stay in the present and not let his thoughts float too far away.

And while he rejected the work in the beginning, Castiel was glad to have them on hand. With the stress of moving he was liable to take up smoking again, especially with each red ‘x’ on his calendar. Quitting the first time had run Castiel ragged, and he would not want to pick up the habit again.

Although leave it to his family to take all his calm and shove it into a wood chipper.

First Gabriel ignored his advice. “Eating inventory is a waste!” he said, “Why do you insist on buying in bulk when you never finish the extra toppings? If you stuck to what you need and buy candy on sale - in the _ supermarket _ \- you could save money!”

“But then I won’t be getting the candy on wholesale!” Gabriel argued, lollipop bulging out obviously from his cheek, the stick bouncing in his tirade, “Listen, I’ve worked out a deal with my suppliers. It’s not like I’m paying for _ quality _.”

Castiel slammed his hands on the counter, disturbing poorly balanced pies cooling nearby. “That’s even _ worse _!”

Nothing could convince Gabriel to change his ways, not even Castiel’s dramatic exit. He admits now, looking back, slamming his brother’s paperwork to the floor and upending a pie on the mess was not his best moment. His tirade was uncharacteristic for the creme-colored walls and curled metal seating, reminiscent of French cafes. And his mess had an audience, customers captivated by them instead of their pastries. But he left satisfied.

Unlike every other interaction with his siblings.

Michael’s tone brought him back to the time when he was three and he showed his eldest brother the crisp dollar he won from the Tooth Fairy. Fitting flashback considering his brother chose dentistry as his career path.

After explaining how Michael was paying too much in anaesthetics, his brother rapped a sickening melody on the big, plaster tooth sitting on his desk. “Why I didn’t see that,” he gasped, smiling, “What a good idea that is, I’ll _ definitely _ consider these other options when I’m restocking.” The patronization was too much to bear, and he left with a greater appreciation of his brother’s job. Pulling teeth wasn’t as easy as it looked.

On the opposite end of the spectrum, Luke, was as combative as he remembered. “I’m not changing anything about the way I run my place,” he groused, leaning against the register with a firm set to his shoulders, lips turned down menacingly.

“Four-thousand dollars on a custom guitar?” Castiel spluttered, wildly waving the incriminating piece of paper.

“It’s quality and name brand,” Luke shrugged, “It’ll sell.”

“You had it personalized, Luke.” He points to the guitar hanging over crates of albums. The shiny, red-and-black instrument had pentagrams running up the length of its neck. Its body, shaped like a V, had two tiny bat wings extending out from where the hole usually went. Finally, in the most damning clue Castiel noticed, his brother’s nickname was etched onto it. No one else in town would dare lay claim to what was ‘Lucifer’s’.

“I run a music shop, nerd,” Luke scoffed, “Lillith adds to the atmosphere or whatever. Happy?”

“No!”

“Then go be miserable somewhere else. I’m running a business here!”

And now here, with Anna, she cuts him off before he can even begin to explain how gifting away too much merchandise hurts her bottom line. She doesn’t care; too absorbed in the cake Gabriel left with them while he joined Claire, Jack, and Anna’s son Sam playing Mario Party on the Nintendo.

“No fair!” Gabriel shouts from the other room, “I wanted to be Princess Peach.”

“Too slow!” Jack taunts, delighting in his uncle’s misery. That alongside the cake unfortunately aren’t enough to dull the ache in his chest for being rejected by all his siblings. The only silver lining was that it was only them; he’d hate to have done even more pointless work for the other Novaks living in Lebanon. Like his aunt, Amara. She and his father kept poor financial records, and he knew any disregard into the effort of untangling the Gordian knot she keeps in her files would leave his children without a parent. Their only father resigned to an insane asylum for having gone mad. 

“Don’t look so glum, Cassie,” Anna says, brushing a few falling hairs out from his eyes, “I’m not that bad to have around.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure…”

She frowns, setting her fork down. “What’s wrong?” Anna asks, “Normally you don’t get like this until you’ve had a few drinks in you.” Glancing behind him, she leans in to whisper, “Is this about your… _ divorce _?”

“No,” he huffs, brows dipping down to cover his eyes, “Why does everyone - I’m not upset about that.”

“It’d be understandable,” Anna carries on, chewing on another bite of cake. “I mean, you’ve been here barely a month… Lebanon hasn’t changed much since you left but it can take awhile to adjust.”

“I’ve been adjusting fine enough,” Castiel tells her, “It’s not like I’ve been a hermit, seeing only those who share my last name.”

Anna smirks. “Technically Novak’s not my last name anymore.”

He rolls his eyes. “I still can’t believe Dad didn’t convince Balthazar to take our last name. How can you live with yourselves? Being known as the Roaches?”

“_ Roche. _” The flash of pink tinting her cheeks, a familial color to the red dyed in her scalp, stokes the fire of amusement in Castiel’s belly. But not enough to overcome the hollow feeling. “It’s a fancy name. You’d be surprised how much it helps sell my products.”

“You know what might help your business...”

“Please, Castiel, not while I’m eating.”

He clenches his fork tight, and in the next instant drops it onto his plate with a clatter. “Do you even care?” he asks, squinting across the table at his sister, “Do any of you even care what I did?” She pushes crumbs around her plate, refusing to answer him, “For God’s sake why did all of you beg me to look over your books, paid me for it, if all you’re going to do is turn your nose up at my findings?”

Unable to stay silent any longer, Anna pushes her plate away and meets his stare. “Because we care about you Castiel.”

“Then listen to what I’m trying to tell you!”

“Not enough for that,” she says, “Look, all of us… when we heard you were moving we thought we’d throw you a bone and… _ give _ you some work to do.”

“What?”

“Y’know, give you some names you can put down on a resume, toss out to people so they know you’ve had _ some _ business.”

Castiel’s teeth push against each other, the strain of a headache pulsing above his left eye. “I’m not fresh out of college, _ Anna _, I’ve done work before. Hell before the move I was on the fast track to the corporate office.”

He won’t forget his boss, Zachariah, shaking his head when he handed in his resignation letter. “In a year or two you could have had my job,” he said, dangling Castiel’s letter between his forefinger and thumb like it was a rotting fish, “Oh well. Good talent always succumbs to distractions in the end.”

“But this isn’t some big ol’ operation,” Anna waves him off, “This is _ your _ own business. It takes _ time _ , putting in the work to building trust within the community. And it’s not like you moved during tax season. There’s gonna be a noticeable lull, and with two kids - one in _ private _ school - you’re not going to be sitting easy on your savings for long.”

Her logic pokes hole in his tantrum, and he begins deflating. “I… I could have been using my time to do what you said. Go from place to place and meet with potential clients.”

Anna snorts, hiding it with her hand. “Sorry,” she says, “But, come on, Cas. Really?”

“What? Why are you laughing?”

“Well it’s not like you were the most social kid back then…” Anna recounts, “It was always a fight to get you to come with us to any event in the town. Sorry if we didn’t have the utmost faith in you being a part of the town this time around.”

Castiel pouts, remembering. “I preferred my alone time.”

“Which is what you had with your work,” Anna pointed out, “that and _ money _.”

He rubs at his forehead, sighing. “Which one of you had this idea?” he asks.

“Gabe,” she tells him, “Said that it’d count for our ‘welcome back’ present. Plus we can show our friends all the work you did for us, help you along.”

Wincing, Castiel rests his head in his hands. “Now I _ have _ to apologize for my display at Gabriel’s the other day.”

“Please, we’re used to it,” Anna says, “Although I _ am _ pissed I missed it. Had to piece together the story from Gabe and his crummy security tapes.”

His nails scratch at his skin. “It’s recorded?”

“Of course.”

“He’s only shown you?”

“We’ve all seen it,” Anna confirms his fears, “Even Sammy saw it, because the sitter cancelled.”

Head bobbing back up, he asks in the most innocent, plaintive voice he could muster. “Am I becoming dad?” He can’t help it. Anna starts snickering, and like call-and-response he echoes it until they’re bent over in their seats.

Anna wipes tears from her eyes. “You’re about halfway there. Get anymore stubborn and there won’t be _ any _ living with you.”

“Is that why you all conspired behind my back?”

“Sometimes you need to take the long way instead of the shortcut,” she says, “For how smart you are, the simplest of solutions pass you by. Even if they’re decorated in bells, whistles, and a neon arrow pointing down at them.”

“I would have accepted your reasoning if you explained it to me,” he tries defending himself.

Anna blasts wide holes, tearing him down. “No, you would have called us out on how we don’t have faith in you, then _ never _help us with our finances ever again - which, given how last April went would ruin all of us - and then who knows.”

“I could have built up a potential client base by November?”

“Or you could have been asking mom and dad for loans to help pay your way through Christmas.”

He shudders. “If you led with that I would have charged you all the _ more _ for my services. God knows Michael’s throwing his money away anyway.”

“He’s a dentist, he makes a lot of it.”

“Ironic that he’s giving it to _ Candy _,” he chuckles, “Gabe might be the one with the sweet tooth but Michael has the wandering eye…”

Anna slaps his hand, barely hiding her own laughter. “You’re so bad, Castiel. Lucky he wasn’t here to hear that. Or Jo...”

“How is dear old Sister Jo?” Castiel asks, “Out of all our extended family she’s the only one I haven’t had the chance to meet on my ‘welcome back’ tour.”

She rolls her eyes, picking up hers and Castiel’s plates to bring to the sink. “Same old, same old. Jo’s been super busy with the Church, teaching bible study every Sunday.” Leaning against the counter, she asks him, “Why haven’t you been to mass, yet? I know mom hasn’t been subtle about it.”

Castiel cracks his knuckles. “I’m not ready to go back to Church, yet. Everyone in town together, staring at me when I enter… I’d prefer to get to know everyone one by one.”

“Don’t feel like tossing yourself into the firing range?”

“Not without a blind fold and a cigar," he says, "Besides back in Pontiac we were very relaxed about going… as long as we hit the major holidays that was good for us."

“Well I won’t pester you about it,” Anna says, returning to her seat, “Not like I want to go every Sunday either.”

He frowns, skewing his head to the side. “I thought Father Joshua tried to make mass interesting?” While he lapsed later in life, there were fond place in his heart for the older man. Who would stand by the exit after every Mass to smile, nod, and shake hands with every member of the parish. Who spent the better part of his days in the rectory garden tending to his flowerbeds. And who once pulled a coin from behind Castiel’s ear and claimed Jesus left it there for him, a ‘modern day miracle’. His parents might judge him for not going, but Father Joshua would welcome him back with open arms no matter how long he dragged his feet.

Anna frowns, the funny twitch of her lips clueing him in that the next few words will tear at the seams of his childhood memories. “Joshua retired a while back, and the Diocese sent over this other ‘fella from the Southeast. Guy can talk for miles. Some days it feels like he’s making up his own passages with his _ own _ teachings.”

His heart swoops downwards; his sister’s characterization of the priest making him miss Joshua more. “Sounds like a total windbag.”

She wags her finger in his face, mock contrition stretched across her face. “That’s no way to speak of a man of Christ. Father Metatron deserves respect like all the rest.”

“Metatron?” Castiel smirks, “Why should I show any _ Decepticon _ respect?”

“Don’t get Sam started,” Anna whacks him, “I’ve only _ just _ got him saying his name right.”

Castiel snickers, drumming his fingers against the table. “It seems this town really has changed more than I would have guessed. New priest, new faces, new owner of Colette’s…”

Anna’s eyes widen, and she leans forward with interest. “You’ve met Dean Winchester?”

He nods. “Hard not to when he’s all Jack seems to talk about these days.”

Ever since that fateful day in the diner all of Jack’s conversations seemed to pepper in little moments featuring Dean Winchester. “Dean showed me a really neat trick that makes it easier to remember which planet comes first, you want to hear?” “Someone tried to skip out on their bill and you want to know what Dean said? It was really funny…” “I didn’t mean to spill it, but Dean was super nice!”

At least Claire showed the other man the same teenage disinterest she doled out in spades. If both his children started liking Dean more than him, he’d feel offended.

“Jack and Claire spend time there after school sometimes,” Castiel continues, “Claire hangs out with friends, and Dean doesn’t seem to mind looking after Jack until she was ready to go. It worked out nicely so I could focus on some meddling siblings’ _ finances… _”

Anna dodges the pointed look, lips curling up in interest. “So Dean’s found another has he?”

Castiel’s heart skips a beat. “What do you mean by _ that _?”

As if realizing what she said, Anna seizes. Arms waving across her chest rapidly, she stutters out, “I… I didn’t mean it like that! No - _ no _!”

He places a hand to his head, sighing. “You really need to watch what you say…”

“Sorry, that was, like, the _ opposite _ of what I tried implying.”

“So what did you _ mean _ to say?”

“Just that Jack isn’t the first kid Dean’s gotten close to in his time here.”

This scratches the irritating itch of Castiel’s curiosity. He’ll admit to wondering why a grown man would want to spend time with a young boy - whether for lack of friends or more sinister activities. But in the glimpses Castiel got over the weeks neither were the case. Dean and kids work together, oddly enough, like the man oozed fatherhood. What he wouldn’t give to bottle up whatever leaked out for his own purposes. The graphic images that follow his thought caused his already red face to burn hotter.

Castiel clears his throat. “He’s not? Who else?”

“Remember my friend Lisa? From cheerleading?”

He thinks he does. Faces from that long ago blur, however, and all he’s left with is a blank mask and brunette hair.

“Anyway,” Anna says, “She went away for college too, like you except not that far. I think you were in your sophomore year when she came back pregnant. Had to drop out -”

“Now I remember!” The entire summer was spent overhearing snippets of his mom and her friends gossiping about her. There was nothing worse to those woman than an unwed mother, and his heart went out to her. “What does that have to do with Dean?”

“Lisa’s yoga studio was a couple blocks away from Colette’s,” she explains, “and always her son, Ben, would wait out her classes there. Cain usually left well enough alone, except Dean being the new owner went over to talk to him…”

Lisa recounted it all to Anna one day over lunch at her house. How Dean served Ben a milkshake and then struck up a conversation about baseball. “Ben carries his mitt with him everywhere,” Lisa sighed, “I always told him to leave it at home if he didn’t have practice but he never listens… and maybe he was right.” When Lisa came to pick Ben up he was bouncing in his seat, filled with sugar and excitement over having found a friend in Dean.

“It got to the point where sometimes they spent all afternoon in Colette’s,” Anna smirks, “Lisa’d slide into the booth, order an early dinner for them, and all three of ‘em would chow down. Pretty sure Ben wasn’t the only one interested in Dean.” She leans back against her chair, tutting. “Too bad things never worked out.”

“They didn’t?”

“Everyone thought they looked like a cute family,” Anna says, “Lord knows how everyone wanted Lisa to find the right kind of guy to be a father for Ben - and Dean was _ it _. If it were anymore obvious he would have come with a sign saying ‘Perfect Package’. Except she winds up meeting this doctor through her sister and now she and Ben live up in Minnesota.”

“That is… odd.”

“Yeah, although no one was _ too _ broken up about it,” she shrugs, “Dean seemed more upset not seeing them anymore than knowing Lisa was with someone else. Or at least he faked it really well since he turned down every girl’s attempt to lend their shoulder for him to cry on.”

Castiel smothers a laugh. “He’s hot commodity?”

“Single man with his bone structure and a stable means of income?” Anna swoons, fanning herself jokingly, “If I didn’t already have Balthazar…”

“Anna!”

“I’m kidding,” she rolls her eyes, “Don’t be so dramatic. Most women want what they don’t have, and in the time Dean’s been here _ no one _ has had him. I know. After diets, daytime soap operas, and Scott Bakula, Dean’s what all the women talk about while shopping.”

Castiel curls inward, dropping his chin onto his knuckles in repose. He wonders about the contradiction that is Dean Winchester. From what he knows, Dean shines with a light that draws everyone to him; powerless to resist like moths. He seems comfortable with the town in a way Castiel, in the many years he’s spent living here already, never has. Why that wouldn’t translate into a rich dating history adds dimension to the portrait he began painting of the other man.

Anna draws him from his inner spiral. “Although he might not be Mr. Popular for long,” she sings, a few feathers stuck to her cat-like grin.

Unsettled by her probing stare, Castiel pulls back. “What do you mean?”

“That _ another _ stable, well-meaning, and what some would call ‘good-looking’ man moved here recently,” Anns says, “and with kids, too. Women love single fathers.”

He groans loud enough Gabriel shouts from the other room, asking what’s wrong. Castiel glares at his sister, “Have you been talking to mom?”

The rest of his night passes without murder, even if the urge grows with every teasing comment Anna tosses his way. And it doubles when Gabriel stumbles in to join. He leaves his sister’s house with a few cracks in his teeth from how much he ground into them. However his soul feels lighter.

Almost like he never left.

* * *

Castiel’s briefcase swings recklessly, bumping into his knee with every third step. After holding it at his side all morning, he’s numbed himself to the squarish bruise no doubt printed on his tanned skin. Besides, he focuses more on the serious injury done to his pride.

He pulls at his tie, loosening the blue silk so the tip of it brushes against his belt buckle. His trench coat bunches in the crook of his wrist, having been shucked between one store and the other. It seemed like a good choice in the cool, early hours inside his house. But the stranglehold summer held over them left its marks, seeping into the first days of fall.

“This is ridiculous…” he mutters quietly, “How can it be so hard…”

Castiel pauses, glancing around the street in hopes of spotting another business where he could potentially redeem himself. Instead his eyes lock in on the bright, bold, red lettering hanging far overhead.

“No,” he says, “I couldn’t…” In the end he doesn’t make the decision. His stomach lurches, signalling a very bad time if he didn’t find food quickly. Sighing, he shuffles forward towards the entrance.

Dean notices him right away. Handing off a plate to a waitress with fiery red hair, he turns to greet the newest customer and his green eyes alight in recognition. “Hey,” he calls, “isn’t it a little early for you to be stopping by?”

Castiel laughs weakly, crossing the distance until he reaches the counter. Swinging his briefcase onto the counter, he says, “Figured I’d get a head start and meet my kids here.”

His voice twinged with crazed exhaustion, otherwise Dean wouldn’t be looking at him with such a raised brow. “You sure?”

“Or maybe,” Castiel continues, “I decided to finally try your food.”

Dean pulls a menu from below and holds it out to him. When Castiel wraps his fingers around the edge, however, Dean doesn’t let go. Instead he leans over the plastic and grins. “Figured you were always too busy to eat?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, tugging the menu free. “...I’ve found some time in my busy schedule for lunch.”

More like his schedule isn’t busy _ anymore _. After finishing his siblings’ busy work, Castiel’s day opened wide up. While that didn’t matter for the weekend, other projects taking precedence like helping Jack build a diorama of a rainforest, he knew Monday would be a different story. Inspired by his talk with Anna, Castiel decided to start the groundwork his siblings thought him incapable of.

The reminder of his trials returns the frown to his face, dialed up to max disappointment. Someone taps on the counter loudly, and Castiel darts his gaze up.

Dean mirrors his expression, pointing at his mouth. “You got a little something here.”

“How? I haven’t ordered yet.” Playing dumb was childish but it was either that and tell Dean about his miserable day. And he would rather not recount his failures, still fresh in his mind.

Seeing as he’s been dripping in bad luck, however, Dean ignores his attempts and carries on. “Come on,” he needles, resting on his elbows, lips curled impishly, “you can tell me. I promise not to laugh… much.”

“Very reassuring,” Castiel bites back, “But no thank you. Last I checked this was a diner and not a bar.”

“Would it help to know I was a bartender back in the day?”

“No, but I’m not surprised.”

“How so?”

He waves his hand around Dean, “You seem like the kind of guy who would.”

Dean’s playfulness withdraws, the light surrounding him dimming. He straightens, hand trembling with nervous energy. “And what do you mean by _ that _?”

Castiel recognizes the taste of foot in his mouth, having lived with most of his life. His talent at saying the wrong things returns full force whenever he spirals in a bad mood. And Dean didn’t deserve being wounded by his prickly armor.

Hoping to save the conversation, Castiel races to think of something to say and lighten the mood. An apology might make things worse, and an explanation would bring the focus back on himself. So he chooses to make a joke. “I meant that given how _ annoying _ you are, people probably needed a drink just to _ talk _ to you.” He stresses each word with enough sarcasm to fill an 18-wheeler, praying Dean catches on to what he means.

Someone does. The older man a few stools away snorts into his drink, drawing ire from Dean. “Bobby,” he chides, “don’t you have anywhere better to be?”

Bobby shakes his head. “Not until I finish my damned fries.”

Dean huffs but a smile blossoms across his face one more. Castiel sighs inwardly, glad to have recovered from the verbal tumble. Another patron from the other side of the diner calls to him, asking for another milkshake, and Dean leaves him allowing Castiel to peruse the menu.

After a few minutes scanning it, he feels his presence return. “So,” Dean asks, “You know what you want?”

“I do, I’m just waiting for my waiter.”

“That’s me.”

Castiel smirks. “Owner, waiter, milkshake maker… don’t tell me you cook, too.”

Dean chuckles. “Not anymore, I’ve got Benny for that.” He jerks a thumb back to the partition, directing Castiel’s focus there. Instinct had him expecting the bearded glower of Cain’s until he reminded himself he was gone. Instead a much chipper man worked, whistling a tune while flipping a patty. His facial hair wasn’t as severe as Cain’s, nor were his locks as full. The thin scruff of hair at least puts to rest the fear some might end up in his food, since before Cain never wore a hair net.

“But,” he continues, “If you want me too, I wouldn’t mind making yours personally.” Dean winks, the friendly gesture like a crane forcibly lifting him out of his bad mood,

Castiel manages a small smile. “If you don’t mind I’d rather leave the cooking to the _ cook _.”

Dean sighs. “_ Fine _. What should I tell him to make, then?”

“Burger and fries.”

“Anything on it?”

“Cheese, lettuce, tomato… onions and bacon?”

Dean writes this all down on a notepad he pulled out when Castiel wasn’t looking. “And to drink?”

“Just to give you something to do,” Castiel says, “I’ll have a milkshake.”

“Vanilla?”

“Strawberry, actually.”

“Surprises, surprises,” Dean murmurs, tucking the pen into the pocket of his apron. He rips the order off and slides it across the partition to Benny who snatches it up immediately. Benny yells for someone named Garth to assist him. He doesn’t pay too much attention, though, as Dean drags his blender over closer to Castiel.

“What are you doing?” he asks, watching Dean making his drink.

The other man dips below into a tiny fridge, stockpiling the ingredients in his arms before dumping them next to the gadget. “I’m making your milkshake,” Dean tells him.

“That doesn’t explain why you’re doing it here instead of somewhere else?”

“I can’t talk to you anywhere else.”

It’s asinine, silly, and makes no sense. But the irritating mask suffocating him all day finally cracks and Castiel smiles brightly, a faint blush tinting his cheeks. Dean trails off, eyes glazing over slightly.

They stare a beat too long, and Castiel has to clear his throat. “Dean?”  
“Yeah…”

“My milkshake?”

He startles, swiping the carton of ice cream so violently to the left it almost falls to the ground if not for some quick maneuvering. Dean busies himself with the milkshake, unable to meet his questioning gaze.

Castiel takes the lead. “So is it a secret recipe?”

Dean looks up briefly, confused. “What is?”

“The milkshake,” he specifies, “Is that why there’s so much business? I mean… why else would you make them yourself?”

Rolling his eyes, Dean flings a few strawberries into the mixture. “If it was secret why would I make it out in the open for everyone to see?”

“Fair point…”

“Why’re you so curious about my milkshakes?” Dean asks, covering the blender and bending his brows strangely.

Castiel shrugs. “I’m wondering why there are so many people here. It’s unnerving seeing Colette’s with customers.”

Dean chuckles, flicking the blender on, tearing and spinning the ingredients into a delicious drink. “Maybe it’s not the milkshakes,” Dean says loudly, over the whir of the blender, “but the milkshake maker.” Then he winks again. This time Castiel considers Dean might have a twitch.

Soon enough the milkshake finishes its sentence in the blender and Dean pours it into a waiting glass. With a little whipped cream and a cherry, it’s ready for Castiel to drink. However Dean doesn’t serve it to him right away.

“Seriously?” he scoffs, glaring at the drink as it floats out of reach, “Hand it over.”

“Not until you tell me why you came here looking all sad.”

He squints, pouting at the offer. But then he sees condensation dripping from his glass, the whipped cream deflating into the drink, and he knows his answer. Castiel relents, holding his hand out. “Fine,” he says, “give me my milkshake and I’ll tell you.”

Dean gives it easily, allowing Castiel a few sips before starting his story. “You know,” Castiel says, “you do make a decent milkshake.”

“Stop flattering and get to chattering.”

Sighing, Castiel tells Dean about his horrible morning.

After dropping Claire and Jack off at school, he swung down onto Main Street to begin his sweep. He parked, pulling down his visor mirror for a quick pep talk while he waited for the clock to reach nine. “At least if the doors are unlocked it makes it harder to turn me down.”

It was a half-hour past when he managed to drum up the nerve to leave his car. Surveying the battlefield, Castiel searched for where to strike first. Heart thumping so loud he could hear it over the light traffic, he knew his first target should be somewhere he felt comfortable in. He turned in circles looking until finally his eyes landed on rows upon rows of colorful flowers. “Flowers,” he tells Dean, “There’s nothing scary about flowers.”

Except the person who owns those flowers.

When he asked the man at the front desk if he could speak to the owner, he was told to wait while he went and got _ ‘her’ _. Immediately his mind wandered into guesswork over what she might look like; imagining a sweet, old lady to shuffle out and greet him. While older clients needed a more gentler touch, going over certain points repeatedly and with more detail, it was something he didn’t mind.

The real owner shattered his expectations.

“So,” she said, stomping over in her black, motorcycle boots, “what’s _ your _ deal?”

Meg Masters was a hurricane chained in leather jackets, ripped band tees, and a red lip that had no right to look so perfect this early in the day. After verbally tripping over his introductions, he asked if there was a back room they could use to speak more privately.

He should have realized his mistake, confronting the beast within her lair. “Dude,” Dean interrupts, laughing, “Meg might look rough around the edges but she’s a total sweetheart. Loves to mess with people though.”

“Oh, she _ thoroughly _ messed with me.”

Castiel couldn’t remember what he said during their meeting. Immediately after shutting the door Meg sunk in the chair at her desk, plopping her feet on the desk and plucking the letter opener off a pile of torn envelopes and fiddling with it. His hands shook while pulling out his papers.

In the end Meg declined his offer. “We run a tight ship here,” she said, leading him towards the front of the store, “maybe if we start to take on some water, maybe -”

“From what I’ve learned it’s always better to prep for accidents instead of waiting.”

“Why don’t you take a flower, on the house.”

As ridiculous he might have looked clutching the orange lily, Castiel refused to let it go until he was back in the relative safety of his car. “Where’s the flower now?” Dean asks, leaning forward with way too much interest.

Castiel sucks on his straw. “Still in the car.”

After driving until her nerves strung themselves together again, Castiel laughed off the strange encounter. He didn’t count it as his true first try, instead pinning his hopes onto the next store.

MacLeod’s Antiques seemed like a far easier attempt.

“Oh man,” Dean doubles the amount of fists he rests on, “Strike two, right?”

“Of course.”

Halfway across the threshold he was attacked by a large beast, the doberman bounding over and jumping on him, licking him into submission.

“Juliet!” a man in an all black suit barked from nearby, “Juliet you stop that!”

The older man from before, Bobby, chuckles low in his gut as he stands. “Ol girl’s a spiteful sort,” he says, dropping cash on the counter, “Doesn’t even greet her owner like that. She must have seen something special in you.”

Castiel blinks, startled by the interruption. Dean rolls his eyes while snatching the cash. “Ignore him, Cas,” he says, prodding him to continue, “what happened after old Crowley got Juliet to heel.”

After her owner dragged Juliet off of Castiel, he held out his hand and introduced himself. “Fergus Crowley,” he said, Scottish accent lilting, “sorry about her, usually isn’t this… _ chipper _.”

He shook his hand, using the back of his other to wipe away as much drool and spit as possible. “It’s okay,” Castiel grimaced, “Although I’m not used to such a… _ warm welcome _.”

“Better a lick than a bite…” Crowley trailed off, shooing Juliet away to a nearby corner, “Anyway, what can I help you with? We just got this desk in that would be perfect for a study - you do have a study don’t you? Seem like the fellow who does…”

“I do, but that’s not why I’m here…” Castiel asked him if he knew where the owner was.

Crowley laughed. “Why you happen to be talking to him!”

Castiel smiled, hope blossoming in his chest. It looked like he and Crowley were off to a great start. But then a voice calls from further back, “And _ her _!”

He glanced behind Crowley, noticing the sullen expression crossing his face, to see a red-haired woman in a long purple dress and with the same accent. She floated over to them, bumping Crowley to the side and holding her hand out. “Rowena at your service.”

“Uh… hello?” Castiel repeated what he did with Crowley, however the disdain curling her lips at how he gripped her hand told him it was a mistake. “You… you’re both the owners?”

“Unfortunately,” Crowley sighed, “Piece of advice, if you ever need to hire a divorce lawyer cost should _ never _ be an issue.”

Not knowing how to respond, Castiel shrugged. “I’ve been divorced. Twice.”

“Twice!” Dean gasps, cutting him off.

Castiel frowns. “Yes, twice. You… you don’t think that’s weird, do you?” Most people react poorly to one divorce, to learn he’s been through two meant they judged him way worse. It’d hurt to know Dean was like everyone else.

As if reading his mind, Dean wildly shakes his head. “No, no, it’s… _ surprising _. I know Sam mentioned it but… I was caught off guard, sorry.” His apology genuine, Castiel relaxes before returning to his story.

“You weren’t the only one,” he tells him, “but I prefer your recovery.”

Crowley’s eyes bulged out from his head, staring at Castiel. Rowena mirrored him for a fraction of a second until her expression shifted into something more _ predatory _ . “Really?” she said, skating forward and locking arms with him, “well then we _ already _ have so much in common.”

“We do?”

“What did you say you were here for again?” He stuttered out an explanation, uncaring to how close Rowena pressed herself against him. “Oh my, that sounds like something we might be interested in, wouldn’t it Fergus?” Crowley squinted at them, early friendliness forgotten, “Why don’t we all discuss this over some tea? Fergus be a dear and put a pot on…”

Dean shifts from his spot at the counter. “Rowena’s a bit much,” he says, the words stretching uncomfortably past his lips, “always warming up to men whenever her ex is around… to drive him _ nuts _.” Something flashes underneath his eyes, and Castiel stirs his straw in sympathy.

“She pulled a similar act with you?”

“Many times.”

“It does lead to an… _ awkward _ affair…” Castiel sat with Rowena in the back room while Crowley puttered away with a teapot. He tried going over his services, what he could help them with and provide hypothetical situations fit for their store.

Neither cared for what he said.

Rowena nodded at the right moments, gifting compliments every few seconds and running her foot up and down his leg. He knew she wasn’t really paying attention. Castiel slipped in a term only fellow accountants would catch, and she didn’t ask him to clarify. While she might have also been an accountant and he didn’t realize, the chance of that was unlikely.

Crowley on the other hand ignored him for most of his time here. He tossed him his cup, tea sloshing over the brim, and sat across from them.

Castiel drank as fast as he could before excusing himself.

“Maybe you can come by again and explain it better,” Rowena called after him, “When ol’ Fergus here has some errands to run perhaps…”

Castiel slumps in his stool. “How were they even married?”

Dean claps him on the shoulder, smiling softly. “No one really knows,” he says, “They rolled into town one day and bickered like crazy until the divorce. Still bicker, but they don’t sleep in the same bed anymore… at least I hope.”

“Anyway, after them I was feeling pretty hopeless… but I didn’t give up. Even though I should have…”

A used car dealership seemed like the perfect place that might need his skills. Sometimes money was lost between hands because some cars were hard to place value on, blue book prices not as clear cut in certain circumstances. And salesmen always want to squeeze in as much profit as possible. Castiel picked his chin up and strode through the rows of cars and into the building, searching for anyone who could lead him to the owner.

“I didn’t even look at the name on the sign,” Castiel groaned, “If I did I wouldn’t have gone anywhere near it…”

He knew a Huntley growing up. They were in the same class, played pee-wee soccer together and no matter how their schedules differed in high school they always shared an English class. And he tormented him constantly. Bartholomew was one of the many faces Castiel left in the rearview mirror after he left Lebanon.

Bartholomew also inherited his father’s business.

Time is supposed to help with many things: gain perspective, grow up, and heal old wounds. Sitting across from his former childhood bully ripped open every scar, even the ones he made after leaving town, and left him feeling like the seven-year old Bartholomew used to kick off of swings. “After that,” Castiel trails off, poking at the dregs of his milkshake, “I wandered aimlessly until… well, you know…”

Something pushes against his forearm, and Castiel blinks at the plate of food trying to slide in front of him. He moves back, allowing Dean to place it down.

Dean offers a comforting smile, the sight warmer than his meal. “I’m sorry you had such a crap day.”

He shrugs. “Thank you. But at least it wasn’t all that bad.”

Someone three stools away asks Dean for a milkshake, and the surrounding noise washes over Castiel like a tidal wave. Recounting his morning, he completely forgot he was in a public place. That it wasn’t him and Dean.

Castiel digs into his food, fighting the flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck.

Dean stays away for a long time while he eats, allowing him to regain a modicum of control. Business picked up even more than before, and he barely parted from the blender that rests in its usual place once again.

Watching him work its clear how much Dean enjoys his job. Chatting with his customers, sprinkling in bits of information that comes from a healthy knowledge of the other party, it’s clear how embedded Dean has become to this community.

And how much of an outsider Castiel feels.

He returns when Castiel’s swirling his last few fries in a pool of ketchup. “Y’know,” he starts, “I got an idea, just now, that you might like.”

“What is it?”

“Could you follow me?”

Castiel glances around the room. “Don’t you need to be here?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Nah, Charlie’ll take over while I’m gone.” He curls two fingers forward and one of the waitresses, a bubbly redhead, skips over and takes Dean’s place at the counter. “So,” he says, brow raised, “you coming?”

He stumbles off the stool, dragging his briefcase behind him as he follows the other man. They pass through swinging double doors and into the kitchen where Benny and a scrawnier, younger kid sweating away. Burgers hiss on the stovetop and oil bubbles loudly. Pans hang over stacked pots, and a large, silver fridge takes up a lot of space. Across from it Castiel can see a metal door, its window frosted over.

“Don’t mind us Benny, Garth,” Dean says, “Just passing.” Garth nods and waves at Castiel, too cheerful for Castiel to ignore. He returns the gesture while waiting for Dean to open another door, this one made of a dark wood.. “Fair warning,” he says, holding the door for him, “it’s a little small…”

Castiel steps inside a room fairly larger than a broom closet, but not by much. There’s a desk, a beige desktop alongside an even bulkier unit hooked up to its left and a faded keyboard. A novelty stress toy rests by the computer mouse, and a leather jacket hangs from the back of the desk chair. Finishing his sweep of the office, Castiel notes another plastic chair, a water cooler, a file cabinet and a few pictures.

Henry is easy to recognize, and he drifts towards the picture. On either side of him are two smaller boys, one with sandy blond hair and green eyes while the other’s bushy brown bangs block his vision. A young Dean and his brother, Sam.

“He’d visit when he could,” Dean says, “driving hours west without stopping until he made it to us.”

“You’re from out west?”

“Couldn’t tell?”

“I’ll admit your accent is a dead giveaway,” Castiel chuckles, facing Dean again, “You wouldn’t struggle parking cars in Harvard yard.” In fact, if he had to guess Dean was somewhere in middle America. Twangs hit the ear like plucked chords on a guitar.

“You didn’t have any problems there either.”

“You tend to lose it after awhile…” Clearing his throat, “What is it you wanted to show me?”

“It’s right over here.” Dean steps around Castiel and over to his file cabinet. Castiel follows again, not knowing what else to do. When Dean stops short, they bang into each other. Dean’s back presses against Castiel’s chest, knocking his nose into Dean’s hair. He huffs a breath, the faintest aroma of fruit filling his senses before Dean jumps back like he was on fire.

“Woah,” he says, eyes wide and cheeks pink, “ever heard of personal space?”

Castiel gestures to the room around them, skewing his head to the side. “There’s not much of that to be found here, Dean.”

Blushing even fiercer than before, Dean hides his face behind a turn. “Stay there,” he mumbles, voice gruff and out of place. Castiel listens, using the time to consider Dean’s odd behavior. Any chance of finding an answer disappears when Dean shows him a stack of folders. A cool mask covers his earlier ruddy features, as if they were never there.

Dean shoves the folders into Castiel’s hands, not helping him in his struggle. “What are these?” Castiel asks, balancing them all poorly.

“They’re invoices, tax filings… a bunch of stuff with numbers on them,” Dean smirks, “for you to look at.”

Castiel startles. “What?”

“Isn’t that what you’ve been trying to do today?” Dean asks, “Get business? Well, here’s my business… in your hands.”

“But Dean, I…”

“What?”

He frowns, temper in his mind raring to charge like a bull. “I might be looking for work but I don’t need pity -”

“Pity?” Dean scoffs, “Christ, it’s not pity, Cas.”

The nickname throws him off, his bull directionless and unmotivated. “Excuse me?”

“It’s not pity,” Dean repeats, softer, “It’s… sometimes when Jack’s doing his homework here he lets slip about how good you are with numbers -”

“He says the same about you.”

“But I don’t have a degree in it,” Dean says, “In fact I don’t have any degree. I barely knew what I was doing when Cain sold me this place, and it’s not like it’s gotten easier.”

Castiel shakes his head, “You could’ve fooled me.”

“Sure the place is packed but,” Dean continues, stepping forward, “but well… there’s always room for improvement right? Even if it’s something small…”

The paper weighs heavy in his hands. “And this… this isn’t pity.”

Dean rolls his eyes, chuckling exasperatedly. “If I sign you a check would you believe me then?”

“No, no you can… you can pay me after,” Castiel tells him, “I still don’t know how to price my services, yet.”

“Well then you better get to it.” They stare at each other once more. In the close quarters Castiel can feel the temperature spiking up between them, and he squeezes the folders tigther against him.

“Right,” Castiel nods, breaking their contest, “right…”

By the time he makes it back to his car, Castiel remembers he forgot to pay. He doesn’t go back to do so.


	3. (Father of a) Rebel Without a Clue

It’s unnervingly familiar being back inside the halls of his old high school. Not a thing has changed in Carver Edlund Academy, and Castiel can’t tell whether it’s a good sign or a bad omen. The halls are still the same shade of dirty beige. And they haven’t fixed the one water fountain with the hair-trigger. The longer he soaks in the nostalgia the more his skin itches, memories of a younger self flashing in his brain. He searches for a distraction to stop thinking about pimples and bottle-lens glasses.

A few teens crowd a green, metal locker, chatting idly. Every now and then they glance his way, curiosity reeking from their ill-hidden actions.

Although one girl with jet black hair pulled into a tight pony watches him carefully with a different emotion playing behind her eyes. When he realizes exactly what it is, and what the blush staining her cheeks meant, Castiel checks the clock hanging nearby and wills it to move faster. If sitting outside the main office weren’t embarrassing enough, being the focus of some girl’s hormone-driven fantasy has him ready to flee the scene and forget all about this meeting.

However the door opens and someone calls for him, and Castiel quickly slips into the room.

“Mr. Novak?” the woman behind the desk asks, standing, glasses in hand. Her curled hair has been pinned tight behind her head in a neat bob, and the bronze color of her pantsuit complements the color of her skin.

He nods, and she offers him a friendly smile and a handshake. “Thank you for your time today.”

“It was no problem at all,” he tells her, “really.” She sits back down, gesturing to the only open seat in the room, beside a blonde woman with a low ponytail and a blue cardigan pulled tight across her chest. She frowns over at him, hands staying where they are on her charcoal grey slacks.

Castiel sits on the edge of his seat, looking between the two women. “You wanted to talk about Claire?”

“Yes,” the darker woman says, folding her hands on her desk, “but why don’t we start with introductions. I know we talked briefly over the phone…”

He remembers, her voice the same even without the added layer of static and dial tone. Commanding authority and confidence supports each word, a necessity when you’re vice principal to a school of teenagers. Ms. Rapier was a force to be reckoned with but only if you were on her bad side, Castiel guessed. Nothing about her said Claire was in too much trouble.

Unlike her companion. “And this is one of our Home Economics teachers, Mrs. Bevel.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” she says in a clipped tone, the British accent chilling the already cold greeting.

Castiel fakes a grin. “Likewise.”

“The reason why she’s here has to do with Claire,” Ms. Rapier continues, “or rather… why we called you in.”

“I  _ would _ love to know why.” While she was charming over the phone, the vice principal kept her cards close when telling Castiel about today’s meeting. Only that there have been problems with Claire in school and what time he should stop by her office so they can discuss solutions.

Ms. Rapier tells him plainly, “Claire has been skipping class.”

“What?”

“She’s been skipping  _ my _ class,” Mrs. Bevel clarifies, “Repeatedly.”

Castiel frowns, turning from the teacher to the vice principal. “Is this true?”

“I’m afraid it is…” Ms. Rapier pulls out a notebook and shows it to him, pointing at the highlighted ‘x’s’ trailing behind Claire’s name. “It was once or twice, at first, and she’d get a demerit like everyone else who broke the rules. Last week, though, she didn’t even bother showing up.”

“And!” Bevel adds, “she hasn’t handed in any of the homework I’ve assigned!”

“This week she managed to attend  _ one _ of Mrs. Bevel’s classes,” Ms. Rapier says, as if trying to find the silver lining in the suspicious gray sky of this conversation, “But we still had to give her detention for all the other times.”

Castiel squints, pieces of a puzzle clicking together. It makes sense then, he thinks, why Claire called from one of the many payphones on campus telling him she needed a ride home. “Make sure you’re here by three-thirty.”

He should have asked her why, but she called in the middle of him checking over Dean’s produce bill and he thought he was onto something. So he agreed, ended the call, and booted up his computer to start comparing the prices of tomatoes as well as read up on this year’s harvest.

“Naturally we called you,” Ms. Rapier finishes, “because we’d like to correct this behavior before it becomes a habit and gets worse.”

“I agree,” he says to them, “I’m sorry for not realizing this sooner. If I had known Claire wasn’t attending  _ any _ of her classes I would have talked with her immediately.”

“Understandable for a father,” Mrs. Bevel says, the rough edges of her voice smoothed away in place of something artificially sweet, “it’s not like Home Ec would be of any interest to you… if your wife, on the other hand -”

“My wife isn’t around.”

“Oh,” she stumbles, the facade of her smile slipping momentarily, “is she away, then? That explains why she became more brazen with her -”

Castiel’s eye twitches, and he tamps down the growing irritation prickling at the base of his skull. “Her mother and I are divorced,” he explains, “and we live in two different states.”

Mrs. Bevel’s mouth falls into a fine line. “I see.”

“Claire is a new student here with us,” Mrs. Rapier takes the reigns of the conversation back into her hands, drawing both their focus to her, “and we know how hard it is for kids to fit in, especially those transferring in after freshman year. However if this problem continues we’ll have to dole out stricter punishment.”

“I completely understand,” Castiel says, “I’ll be sure to sit down with her and talk about this, and,” he addresses Mrs. Bevel directly, “I hope you’d be willing to accept any assignments she hands in late, even if it’s for a reduced grade.”

She sniffs, but doesn’t tell him no.

“I’m glad this was a productive meeting,” Ms. Rapier leans back in her chair, tapping her glasses against her chin. “While I have you though… do you mind if I ask a question?”

Startled, Castiel doesn’t know how to respond to that. Instead he nods dumbly, snapping his mouth shut.

“Since you bring up your living situation,” she starts, treading carefully, “I want to know how you’re feeling.”

“Me?”

“It’s not easy raising children on your own,” she says, “especially two that go to very different schools.”

He almost asks her how she knows about Jack before remembering he told her during the phone call, about how he’d need to pick his son up before making the drive over to Carver Edlund.

“It’s a stressful job, and I want to make sure that you’re not feeling…  _ overwhelmed _ .”

Even though it’s phrased differently Castiel sees her question for what it truly is. He’s faced it countless times before, and he’s sure he’ll get it a thousand times more after today.

No one thinks he’s doing a good job as a parent. Castiel flip flops between the reason why, whether preconceived notions of single fathers tainting their opinions or, worse yet, they don’t have any faith in  _ him _ .

He releases a heated breath of annoyance, calming down before answering. Castiel doesn’t think Ms. Rapier meant any harm with her question, and he doesn’t want to leave a poor impression with the vice principal.

“Yes, it is very stressful,” he says, “but I’m very glad that I get the chance to be with my children. Even if my life is crazier than ever I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

“All the same,” Mrs. Bevel sticks her two cents into the conversation, cranking it like a machine outside a grocery store producing some worthless trinket to stand in for her opinion. “There are some things that require a woman’s touch. It wouldn’t be any trouble if you were to ask for help…”

Castiel hides his hand so they won’t see the streaks of white painting his knuckles as he squeezes his fist tight. He forces his next, carefully chosen words out through a shaky smile. “If I do need help, I have it. Thank you for your concern though.”

Mrs. Bevel grins as if she ignored everything he said that didn’t fit the answer she wanted. Before she left she mentioned how she knew of a few simple recipes she could pass onto Claire during their next class so his kids could have something nutritious to eat.

Castiel nearly tossed the chair she sat on at her as she bid goodbye, waiting until the door shut completely to breathe deeply.

“I’m sorry about her,” Ms. Rapier starts, “normally I would have kept this between us, but when she overheard me telling my secretary she scammed me into letting her in.”

“It’s okay,” Castiel says, rubbing at his temple, “I wouldn’t have met her if Claire went to her classes like she was supposed to. God, where was she even going during that time?”

“She wouldn’t say,” she shrugs, “and it’s not like we have ways to make her talk. Since this is a high school and not a police station we’re kind of limited with what we can do.”

He sighs, “If she tells me I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.” Ms. Rapier places her glasses down and stands again, “Come on, I’ll walk you out.”

“You don’t have to -”

“Please, I insist.”

They exit her office, Ms. Rapier locking it behind her. “One time I left it opened I walked in to find a student going through my files,” she says, “Now I always have to lock it, even if I’m going to the bathroom.”

“That’s awful,” Castiel says, “what happened to the kid?”

“Suspension. It was a gutsy move, too much so to be expelled for it.”

He quiets after that, preferring to walk the halls alongside her in silence. It doesn’t last long. Halfway down one hall that stretched longer than normal, Ms. Rapier hums thoughtfully. The sound echoes in the empty space, and directs his gaze to where hers is.

Across from the wall of lockers rests a glass wall filled with pictures, hanging medals, and glittering trophies from the past. There’s one memory that captures the vice principal’s attention.

“I thought I recognized your name,” she says, halting her stride, “Castiel Novak… pretty famous.”

“Not really,” he blushes, rubbing at his neck, “it was just Mathletes.”

“Regional champions four times,” she counts the placards, smirking, “ _ and _ a finalist in the United States of America Mathematical Olympiad?” He doesn’t know why they hung  _ that _ in there, the certificate so old it should be disintegrating already.

“I didn’t win that one,” he mutters weakly, “prize money wasn’t even that big.”

“You’re a smart man, Castiel,” Billie says, “loves to solve problems that are placed in front of you, correct?”

“...Yes.”

“A word of advice, then.” She starts walking again, Castiel scurrying after her. “Kids aren’t like math. No matter how hard you stare at them, you won’t be able to figure out a solution.”

He mulls over her advice, turning it around in his head. So lost in thought he doesn’t realize they’ve stopped again in front of the exit.

“Don’t overthink it too much, though,” she tells him, “you’ll figure it out.”

She spins on her heel, retracing their path back to her office. He watches her leave, waiting until she disappears behind a corner before shaking from his spell. Of course he knows his children aren’t problems, he thinks while stepping out into the chilly, October afternoon. Hurrying to his car, he catches sight of Jack animatedly talking to his sister despite her sullen expression.

“They’re not like math,” he mutters to himself, “but some days I wish they were.”

He reaches the car and gets in, waiting until they’re on the road to broach the topic of Home Economics. And even when they finish arguing, Castiel isn’t closer to figuring out why she skipped all those classes.

Not like math at all.

* * *

Castiel wakes with a start, gasping as harsh pounding breaks him from dreamless sleep. He groans, rubbing at the crust in his eyes while dragging himself up. A quick glance at the clock tells him it’s way too early for him to be up, the blinking three mocking him.

Another series of knocks racks the house, and Castiel grumbles “I’m coming, I’m coming…” Shuffling out the room, forgoing his robe and slippers because his mind’s too addled with sleep to remember them.

Jack pokes his head out the door, squinting at Castiel. “Dad?” he whispers, “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he yawns, mussing his hair, “I’m going to find out.” His children are both terrible sleepers, the simplest of noises like bells in a clock tower ringing them awake. When they were babies it was so easy to upset them, and he never got any rest until the cribs were well and gone. Seeing Jack didn’t surprise him, although he should have realized something was up when Claire’s door stayed closed. In that moment it wasn’t important because the person outside his house would not stop knocking.

Seeing who it was drags him fully into wakefulness.

Sam stands with a firm set to his shoulders, frowning, hand resting heavily on a pouting Claire’s shoulder.

He looks between the two, pinching himself to make sure it’s not a dream. When the scene stays the same, Castiel resigns himself to the waking nightmare. “What’s going on?”

“Sorry ‘bout this,” Sam says, “But Claire here was caught trespassing -”

“Trespassing?” Castiel growls, rubbing his temple, “Claire…”

“I didn’t mean to!” she says, “How was I supposed to -”

“Dad?”

He turns to find Jack watching them all from the top of the staircase, sleepy confusion stretching his lips into a thin line. Castiel sighs, stepping away from the door. “Why don’t we talk about this inside.” Sam leads Claire in, taking in the room for the first time. “You two can go have a seat in the living room, Jack -” he calls up to the younger boy, “you can go to bed!” He waits until the rushed sound of footsteps disappears behind the tiny slam. Then he asks Sam, “Do you want anything? Maybe some coffee?”

“Coffee would be nice, thank you.”

“I’ll make us both a cup.”

Castiel runs away into the kitchen, busying himself with the coffee maker while processing the past few minutes. There’s nothing worse for a parent than a cop waking them up in the middle of the night. As the coffee grinds itself over and over he does offer a weak prayer, thanking that Sam was  _ with _ Claire and not alone. He can only imagine how more awful that might have been, and he nearly cracks the handle off the mug with his worry. Still, he thinks, even though Claire’s safe it doesn’t lessen how much trouble she’s in.

With mugs in hand Castiel returns, handing one off to Sam while asking, “Where was she caught trespassing?”

Claire rolls her eyes from her place on the armchair, huffing and closing herself off from both adults in the room. Sam nervously darts his gaze between the two until ultimately locking in on Castiel, beginning his story.

“We got a call from Mr. Ramiel, the guy who owns that large farmhouse right past the creek?”

Castiel’s frown deepens, gears shifting as the name strikes him with a nervous familiarity. When he remembers, he nearly drops his mug in fright. “Yes, I know who he is.”

Sam nods, continuing. “Anyway he usually calls up once or twice a night, and we never pay it any mind. Except tonight he said that one of the fences he has lining the property was bent and he sounded…  _ off _ .” Castiel snorted, Sam’s characterization too nice. “We figured it was best someone from the station came down and checked things out. About a half-hour in we found Claire along with a few others… drinking.”

“Drinking?” Castiel repeats, addressing Claire. Claire sinks further into her seat, nonresponsive. Castiel’s eye twitches. “Claire,” he says, “Claire are you listening?”

“Yes, I’m not  _ deaf _ .”

“Hey now,” Sam rounds on her quickly, “that’s not nice.”

Claire scoffs. “What are you… the manners police?”

“No, but I  _ am _ the regular police.”

While Claire’s face flushes a faint pink Castiel runs a shaky hand through his hair. “I can’t believe this… trespassing, underage drinking -”

“It was one beer,” Claire tells him, “And I drank, like,  _ half _ of it.”

“You shouldn’t have been drinking at all!” he yells, feeling the vein on his forehead pulsating. “Dammit Claire, what the hell were you thinking?”

“It wasn’t even my idea,” she plays up her defense, “One of the guys in my Chemistry class invited me out… and you said how I should be putting myself out there, making friends.”

“Not friends like these,” Castiel says, “Do you even know what could have happened to you tonight?”

“We weren’t doing anything wrong, just having fun -”

“On someone else’s property!” Castiel knows his voice dips into hysterics, pitch rising with his emotions, “Not just anybody, but crazy old Ramiel’s!”

“Now Castiel -”

“You’re lucky it was Deputy Winchester who found you otherwise it might have been some senile old man and his  _ shotgun _ !” His chest heaves with frantic breaths, and immediately Castiel flashes back many years ago to his father giving a similar lecture to his brother Luke. They were hidden by the kitchen door but the walls were so thin he, Anna, and Gabriel could hear easily from their perch on the stairs. When the memory ends his daughter’s pale and frightened face stares back at him.

All fight leaves him. Castiel slumps back into the couch, sighing. “Claire, I’m sorry it’s… that was such a  _ stupid _ thing you did and I - I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“...I know.”

Sipping at his coffee, Castiel comes to a decision. “Good. You’re grounded.”

Claire shoots out of the chair, “What?”

“You heard me,” he says, “you’re  _ grounded _ .”

“Oh come on!” she groans, “you don’t ground - you  _ never _ ground.”

“Well maybe it’s time I start.” She stomps her foot at that and glares at him, baring her teeth. Castiel meets her stare, more prepared to wait it out.

He wins, and she stomps away in defeat. “Lebanon sucks!” she yells, “I can’t do  _ anything _ here!” With a final slam of her bedroom door she ends their argument.

The paternal yoke becomes too hard to bare and Castiel casts it down with a gasp, downing his coffee hoping the shock of caffeine can keep his heart rate from dropping now that the adrenaline leaves him.

Sam clears his throat, and Castiel realizes he’s still there. Shifting awkwardly, he turns to the Deputy. “I’m sorry you had to witness that.”

“It’s okay,” he says to him, “I’m no stranger to fights between family.”

“She hasn’t always been like this,” he tells Sam, brows drawn up in sadness like a forlorn arrow, “At least, not recently…” His and Claire’s relationship had strained more than usual after he met with Ms. Rapier and Mrs. Bevel.

When they made it home she didn’t wait for Castiel to put the car in park she bolted from the car and inside the house, ignoring his calls to her. Trailing behind a few seconds later he managed to step through the door just as she slammed hers. She didn’t leave her room at all that night.

Claire kept up the act, barely responding to his attempts at engaging her. Their usual banter was replaced with a foreign barrier. And every night after dinner she left her plate on the table and returned to her room, blasting music until he knocked and told her to turn it off. If Castiel didn’t watch it get torn down years ago he would have suspected Soviets airlifting a section of the Berlin Wall and dropping it between him and his daughter.

All because he betrayed her.

“I don’t see why you’re not taking my side!” she said, hands flailing, “you think she’s a jerk, too!”

“That being said, Claire, we can’t just pick and choose which classes to attend.” He kept a firm hold of his steering wheel, so focused on the road he had tunnel vision. “There are a lot of things we might not like, but we got to suck up and deal with it. Make the best out of these situations.”

“God, you don’t get it!”

“Why don’t you help me get it, then!”

They argued in circles all while Jack doodled in his notebook.

“She’s a teenager, Castiel,” Sam says, nudging him with his knee, “don’t you remember being exactly like this?”

“No, actually,” he sighs, “I was a pretty boring kid growing up… didn’t really do much of anything. My brother, Luke, on the other hand raised enough hell the Sheriff at the time gave him a nickname.”

“So that’s Lucifer’s real name? Luke?”

“They still call him that?”

“There’s a placard hanging at the station.”

Castiel drags a hand over his eyes. “Hopefully the same doesn’t happen to Claire.” Eyes closed, he lets his imagination run miles ahead to where an older Claire sits behind the shadow of prison bars in a cartoonish black-and-white striped jumpsuit. She widdles at a stick with plastic spoon and practices stabbing it every now and then.

A warm hand drops onto his shoulder, disturbing the fantasy. “Claire’s a good kid, Castiel,” Sam says, “she’s just growing up.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Well, kids can still trespass and make something of themselves,” Sam starts, smiling, “it’s not the worst thing I’ve done and here I am.”

He arches a brow. “You mean you were a teenage delinquent?”

Sam chuckles, nodding. “I had a lot of anger back then, and nothing more than a scrawny body to contain it. Acting out made me feel…  _ better _ . Even  _ if _ I got caught and maybe spent a night or two at the station…” His eyes shimmer as he basks in a golden memory of youth. “Drinking, smoking, joy riding… it helped me forget my problems for a little bit and have fun.”

Castiel frowns, mouth moving without thought. “And Dean?”

The deputy casts a suspicious glance his way. “What about Dean?”

“Did he ever… act out?”

This urges a stronger laugh out from Sam. “God, no!” Sam says, “Dean was all charm with no follow through. Sure he played up the bad boy image but he was never out late on a school night, and he always made sure I had my homework finished before bed. Hell, most of the time it was Dean bailing me out and lecturing me all the way home!”

The description of younger Dean pokes at his brain. The few brush strokes of the Winchesters’ youth paints a picture he can’t quite understand yet. His focus fails as Sam sucks in a deep breath beside him.

“Although,” he continues, “there was one time…” All playful energy lost, Sam nervously glances over at Castiel and squeezes his mouth tight.

Castiel prods anyhow. “One time…?”

“It’s… not my place to say.”

“I understand.”

Checking his watch, Sam curses softly. “I didn’t realize how late it was, I’ve still got to file the report.”  
“It’s my fault,” Castiel says, taking the mug as Sam shoves it into his hand, “I kept you here longer than you needed to be.”

Sam waves him off. “Nonsense, you were having a hard time of it. I’m glad I could be of any help.”

“More than you realize.” They walk over to the door, Castiel snagging Sam’s sleeve before he leaves. “Thank you for bringing her home.”

He smiles. “Doing my duty. Hopefully the next time I see Claire it’s when I’m off duty.”

“Agreed.”

Sam leaves, Castiel now alone. In the quiet of the downstairs hall, he hears the siren call of his bed singing to him. Sighing, Castiel instead heads over to grab his mug and move to refill it.

He knows sleep is impossible now. Until the sun rises and his children wake again he has his coffee and the haunting fears that he cannot be the father his children need.

* * *

“...and Miss Moseley didn’t even have to turn around!” Jack says, bouncing up and down, “She was writing out this thing called the Crab Cycle and she said ‘Ronnie you put that paper airplane down or you’ll poke Maggie’s eye out’. Can you believe it?”

Thinking back to his encounters with Jack’s teacher, he does.

“I think she’s psychic,” Jack sighs, glancing out the window, “Like, not only to know about the airplane but that it would hit Mindy? And with that much certainty!”

“Or maybe it’s because of the eyes on the back of her head.”

“Really?” Jack asks, gaping at him, “She has them?”

Castiel tamps down the laughter bubbling in his chest, nodding with a tight-lipped smile. “Yep. All adults do.”

“Wow… wait, I’ve seen the back of her head. She doesn’t have any eyes.”

“They’re hidden by their hair,” Castiel explains, “You see when you get to a certain age little bulbs start growing on the back of your skull. These are your second pair of eyes, and they’re much different from your first pair because you can turn them on and off at will. However they are much smaller than average, and can see at twice the distance. They fall off when you reach a certain age, too.”

“ _ Really _ ?”

“...No.” Castiel’s joy echoes in the cabin, overpowering his son’s aggravated, drawn out ‘ _ Dad _ !’ He soaks up the feeling, squeezing every last drop out since it’s become a finite resource in his house.

Grounding wasn’t only a punishment for Claire, it seemed. The first two days during her sentence, unfortunately on the weekend, was tough for him as well since he was trapped with his daughter in the house and forced to suffer under her scrutiny. An itch would creep up on his skin, the feeling of someone watching him, and when he’d look at her Castiel would find her face buried in one of the many magazines she owned. The burnt smell of her heated anger clung to him, though. Each time he tried to catch her gaze left him feeling more and more uncertain he was doing the right thing.

Then problems arose earlier this morning.

“But how can I go see Dean if Claire has to stay here?”

Castiel hid behind his coffee, still too sleepy to face his son’s puppy eyes. Claire poked at her cereal and said, “Y’know, if you take it back I can -”

“No,” he cut her off, “no you’re still grounded until Friday.”

She slammed her fist against the counter. “Come on!”

He gulped down his coffee, hoping to come up with an answer before it ran empty. When he came back up for air, Castiel had an answer. “I’ll take you.”

Which is why he’s parking a block down from Colette’s, Claire with his mother until he comes to pick her up. He felt somewhat bad leaving her with Becky, especially when she stood outside on the porch waving when they arrived. The thought that she waited there for them since he called floated past, and he doesn’t put it past her.

“Y’know,” he whispered to her, “I can bring you back a milkshake if you want?” It was the best olive branch he could think of.

“Whatever,” Claire sighed, getting out of the car. It wasn’t a no, and that vast improvement made his sails billow with excitement.

“Hey,” Castiel calls to Jack, “don’t run off now!” Jack slows down, waiting while Castiel checks his briefcase.

Taking Jack to see Dean was a better idea the more Castiel reflected on it. Dean’s files were sitting on his desk, waiting for him to return them to their rightful owner. Alongside the list of suggestions he compiled. He’d love to go over it all with Dean and discuss next steps.

Walking inside Colette’s, however, Castiel can’t see Dean at his usual station. Scanning the crowded counter, the diner’s owner is nowhere to be seen.

A waitress greets them by name. “Dean’s in the back,” she says, “But I can get you seated?”

“That would be great,” he peeks at her nametag, “Charlie.”

“No problem!”

She leads them over to a booth in the back, between a family of four enjoying a nice meal and an older gentleman nursing a warm mug of coffee. Jack crawls on the vinyl, placing his bag over towards the window. Castiel sits across from him, briefcase resting comfortably on the table.

“Do you two even want menus or are your orders the same as last time?” Charlie asks, pen and pad at the ready.

Castiel smiles. “Bacon cheeseburger deluxe with fries, strawberry milkshake for me, and a grilled cheese sandwich with a chocolate milkshake for Jack.”

“And  _ two _ cherries!” Jack adds, “Please.”

Charlie rolls her eyes fondly. “Well since you asked so nicely…” She leaves, letting them know she’ll be back with their food shortly.

“Jack,” he starts, pulling out his work, “do you have any homework that needs to be done?”

“Not really,” he says, “but there’s this  _ big _ test tomorrow on this book we’ve been reading -  _ Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _ ?” Jack fidgets in his seat, “I’m kinda nervous about it.”

“Well why so?”

“It’s a weird book,” his son tells him, “and I… I haven’t finished it yet ‘cause I got scared.”

Castiel frowns, head tilted in confusion. “It is? What’s it about?”

Jack begins recounting all that he’s read so far in the book. About how a candy factory held a special contest for five children. That whoever bought a chocolate bar with a golden ticket inside would get clearance to tour the factory and meet its reclusive owner. However things took a turn as the chocolate factory was far more dangerous than it seemed. Jack stopped reading after the first winner, Augustus, drowned in liquid chocolate.

“They didn’t even help!” Jack cries, “All they did was have these workers sing a song? How is that allowed? Why didn’t they get more worked up over it?”

“Jack…” Castiel trails off, noticing the slight tremble of his son’s lip. Sighing, he plasters on a bright smile and shifts course. “It does sound very scary, Jack,” he says, “and you’re really brave to have gotten so far.”

“I am?”

“Yes… but imagine how brave you’ll be if you get through the whole book?”

Jack’s eyes drift to the side, as does his head, a sign his son is thinking very hard. “I don’t know,” he says, “last time I read it I had a really weird dream…”

“How about this,” Castiel leans across the table, urging Jack to do the same. “After we finish up here, why don’t we stop over at Blockbuster and pick out a movie to watch tonight.”

“You mean it?”

“Your choice,” he nods, “whatever you pick, we’ll watch. I find that things aren’t that scary after they’re followed by funny things. One time your uncle Gabe tricked me into watching this really scary movie when I was younger, and I couldn’t even close my eyes I was  _ terrified _ . I heard this bang downstairs and nearly wet the bed -”

“Dad!”

“Nearly,” he stresses, “I didn’t actually… anyway, since I couldn’t sleep I went to investigate. It was nothing more than your grandfather sneaking a few of the cookies grandma made for a bake sale. But I was so relieved I ran into him and hugged him real tight.”

“Then what happened?” Jack asks, enraptured.

“He asked me what was wrong and… and he fixed it.” Castiel smiles as the reel inside his mind flickers to life, showing Chuck taking him into the living room and turning the old television on.

“Let’s see if we can’t find some cartoons or something,” he said, handing Castiel a cookie with a wink, “Don’t tell your mother.”

Chuck stumbled upon a rerun of an old Looney Tunes episode and they settled in to watch. The antics were so funny he had to hide his face in a pillow to hold back the giggles. It tapers off, though, since halfway into an episode about the roadrunner and coyote he fell asleep.

Becky found them the next morning snuggled together with crumbs down their shirts.

“Did you get in trouble?”

“I didn’t,” Castiel bit back a grin, “but your grandfather sure did.”

A laugh startles them from nearby, Castiel swinging wide eyes up at Dean. The other man has no problem beaming down at him cheekily, two milkshakes in hand.

“...How long have you been standing there?”

He shrugs. “Since the part about the bed wetting.” Castiel flushes, sinking against his seat so hard the vinyl squeaks. Dean snickers some more, placing the drinks in front of them. “Don’t worry Cas, it’s not that bad. Actually kind of cute.”

Ignoring Dean’s teasing, Castiel turns to Jack. “So, what do you say? Deal?”

Jack taps his fingers against his glass, eyeing the cherries resting on the whipped cream. “Okay,” he says, “but…”

“But?”

“Can Claire watch, too?”

“Jack,” Castiel sighs, “y’know she can’t. She’s grounded.”

“Please?”

Once again he falls victim to his son’s masterful skills of manipulation. “Okay. She can watch.”

“Yay!”

Castiel moves to take his own glass when he notices the shadow still looming over him. He meets Dean’s soft gaze with a curious one of his own. “Is there… something else?”

Startled, Dean uses a free hand to scratch at his head and apologize. “No, I’ll just… get out of your hair -”

“Actually,” Cas says, “if you have some free time, I would love to go over the files you gave me a while ago.”

Dean glances back at his counter, shifting on his feet. “I think I can spare a few minutes,” he says, sliding in next to Jack. “Scoot over, Jackie boy.”

Jack whines, but gives the older man room while pressing his backpack into the window.

Castiel lays his work across the table, doing well to avoid the dripping condensation from both milkshakes. Sliding his glasses onto his face, he shifts into accountant mode. “I think we should start with your produce…”

He launches into the presentation he prepared for Dean, going over the discrepancies he managed to find both within the documents as well as by comparing outside resources. It took a long while, but by the time he finished he was glad Dean offered him the chance to help. There were many different things Dean could do to improve his business, and he hopes this time his suggestions will be considered.

Jack checks out of the conversation immediately, getting a head start on reading. However Dean sits enraptured, listening very carefully to what Castiel says. At certain points he interrupts, asking him to clarify a few things. They hit a hiccup when discussing wages, rapidly firing back and forth over it that ultimately ends when Castiel backs away and decides to show how Dean overspends on his napkins. He only brought up staff salary because some of the wages made no sense, but he knows a landmine when he trips over it.

“...you might not see much improvement at first, but over the year you’ll find you have extra money to put towards other things,” Castiel says, “maybe you want to print new menus or reupholster… whatever you decide.”

“Christ, Cas,” Dean sighs, both hands lost in his sandy locks, “how the hell did you manage to find all that?”

“Because I’m  _ paid _ to.” Castiel smiles, organizing the papers into one neat pile, “A lot of what I found took me hours of digging, and a few had me calling vegetable suppliers to figure out average sale prices.  _ Your _ time was spent doing more important things.”

“Seriously, though, how much do I owe you?” he asks, “Whatever price, you name it.”

“I’ll come back to you with an estimate.” Castiel hands the papers to Dean, “Along with some dates you’ll want to mark down. That way you’ll know when I’ll need to sift through your files again.”

“You’re gonna do this all again?”

“Prices fluctuate all the time,” he says, “my job is to keep track of them and help you get the best quality for the best price.”

“You’re amazing,” Dean sighs, stars shining so brightly in his eyes it makes his neck heat up.

“Thank you…” he murmurs, shyly ducking his gaze away from the other man. Castiel sucks on his straw, only to keep himself from unfurling a massive grin that might break his face in two. Dean’s compliments warm his heart, making him feel like he’s done something right for a change. And after a string of wrong turns, Castiel thinks he finally did a good job. A reminder of the potholes and speed bumps in his rear view mirror, however, causes the warmth to turn cold and the milkshake to turn to ash in his mouth.

Of course Dean notices.

“Hey,” he reaches out, tapping Castiel on his hand, “what’s the matter?”

“It’s nothing,” Castiel says, not wanting to drag Dean down with him.

He doesn’t have to, though. Dean jumps in with no problem. “Is this about Claire?”

Castiel shoots up so suddenly he nearly upends his drink. Luckily he catches it before it spills. “How’d you guess?”

“Well I was here when you said she was grounded,” Dean starts, rubbing his thumb on the table guiltily, “Plus I  _ might _ have heard Sam mention it.”

“You did?”  
“Hard not to when you share a house.”

“So you know,” he sighs, “about…”

Dean nods. “Teenagers,” he says, the word containing a thousand different meanings under the surface, all of which Castiel can relate to.

“They are difficult to understand.”

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, “But y’know what, at least Claire’s lucky enough to have a dad like you to help her through these years.”

Castiel’s thoughts crash into themselves. “What?”

“What?”

“You said she was lucky to have a dad like… me?”

Dean shrugs. “Yeah. I said it in English, right?”

“You did I… I just…” Castiel shakes his head, “I just have trouble believing it is all.”

“Well you should,” Dean tells him, “I happen to be a good judge of character, and it’s clear you love your kids enough to do  _ anything _ for them. I mean, I don’t think you came in today to tell me I pay too much for my lettuce, right?”

“...Not really.”

Dean chuckles, leaning back against the vinyl. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, Cas. Every parent stumbles now and then; what matters is that you pick yourself up and do it again. Because your kids need you to be there for them, for the good and especially the bad…” His eyes glaze over, a fog settling over his green eyes.

A question rests on the tip of Castiel’s tongue; curiosity batting it against the cage of his mouth, hoping to sneak it through any sort of crack or hole it finds. Castiel doesn’t let it, instead swallowing it down like a lump.

He clears his throat, startling Dean out from his stupor. “Thank you for your confidence in me, Dean.”

“Anytime, Cas.” Dean raps his knuckles on the table as Charlie comes by with their food.

“Sorry for the wait,” she tells them, “we’ve been a little backed up because Garth had to man the blender since  _ somebody _ isn’t where he’s supposed to be.”

“And that’s my cue,” Dean smirks, standing, “I’ll leave you two to eat. Jack, stay awesome. Cas… don’t be so hard on yourself, okay?”

“I’ll try.”

Dean follows Charlie away, leaving the two Novak men to their meal. Castiel glances down at it, hunger racking his body. Except his stomach doesn’t gurgle, the craving seeking a different sort of satisfaction.

Jack has no problem eating right away, stuffing one triangle into his face. “Dad,” he says, “you gonna start or…?”

“Yes, sorry…” He takes a bite of his burger, squinting while his son takes an overly large bite. “Don’t eat too much too fast,” he says, crumbs flying everywhere, “you could choke.”

“Don’t speak with your mouth full, it’s rude.”

They smile at each other and laugh, and Castiel forgets about the storm clouds darkening Dean’s vision.


	4. Tricks & Treats

Castiel plucks a plastic-bag at random from its metal hanger, squeezing the thin material and the fabric inside. “What about this one, Jack,” he asks, holding it out to his son, “Do you like this?”

Jack glances from a similar bag in his hand to the one in Castiel’s, scrunching his face even further up in disgust. “What’s that supposed to be?”

“What are you talking about?” Castiel asks, “it’s…” he double-checks the bag before continuing, “it’s Scooby-Doo!”

“Isn’t Scooby-Doo supposed to be brown?”

Castiel looks past the cut-out of the kid wearing the felt costume with the hood and into the actual bag, noticing the pale, yellow color of the material. “He… should be?”

“I think this is what you meant to grab,” Claire says, grabbing another bag stuffed with brown felt.

Castiel takes it from her, comparing the two costumes. “But this has Tweety Bird on it?”

“Yeah,” his daughter scoffs, “probably because someone _ swapped _ the cardboard signs inside.”

He frowns, squinting at her. “Why would someone do that?”

She answers him by pointing down at one of the hollow decorations plaguing the aisle, pointer tapping the tip of the ‘k’ in ‘_ Trick _’.

“Right,” he sighs, returning both bags to their racks, “of course.”

Halloween wasn’t always this difficult, right? Then again, he thinks while watching Jack pull a red suit out from its casing, he never did Halloween alone.

This holiday was always more Kelly’s wheelhouse. She’d spent the first weekend of every October decorating their home with cobwebs and cauldrons and taking up every inch of their home. And then the rest of the time was spent stockpiling candy and helping get costumes ready. All Castiel contributed was empty bags and wrappers after finishing off the hidden candy. “Those were for the kids!” she chided, eyeing him with fond exasperation. He’d apologize, going out with her to pick up even more candy he’d inevitably eat through.

He didn’t think about costumes until October 31st, when Kelly would shove whatever she decided they would dress up as in his hands and tell him to go change. Now, without her, he realizes how difficult the process is and wishes he could phone her for help.

“I don’t like this one,” Jack sighs, dropping the costume and bag to the ground, “doesn’t fit right.”

“Then we put it away Jack.” Castiel scoops it up and shoves it back in, “We don’t leave things on the floor, especially inside stores.”

“Sorry…”

Claire leans against the cart, chewing on a grape she pulled from the pound they had inside the cart. “Why are we still here? Jack hasn’t found anything he likes?”

“Because we still _ might _.”

“Why can’t I have a costume like last years?” Jack asks, blinking up at him with his too-wide eyes.

Castiel hisses a soft groan, pinching the space between his brows. “Because daddy can’t do what mommy could.”

Kelly made all their costumes. “Why?” he asked her one night while she sewed pink fabric for Claire’s ballerina outfit so many years ago, “You run yourself ragged all month doing this for us, why do you do it?” Between her day job and Halloween preparation, there wasn’t any time to relax in October.

She stopped, turning to look at him with a caring smile. “Because I get to see how happy you all look, and I’d take that over any amount of sleep.” Kelly fixed her ponytail and carried on with her work. He watched her until his eyelids fell shut and sleep overtook him.

His heart aches dully, the pain not as sharp as it used to be. Months had passed from their amicable split, and still he wonders what would have happened if they stayed together. Instantly he drops the thought like a hot potato, not willing to waste time with ‘what-ifs’ and ‘could-bes’.

“But we’ll still find one here that you’ll like,” Castiel promises, “Why don’t we try the next aisle, see if anything there’s better?” He starts walking, staying slow as he waits for the tell-tale sound of wheels following him.

The next aisle had less costumes than the other, but there was something far more interesting waiting for them.

Dean holds up two bags of candy, weighing each of them in decision. It’s strange seeing him outside of Colette’s, but even stranger that in such a small time they’re only _ now _running into each other.

He’s seen others within the community multiple times already. The other morning while on a quick walk around the block he saw Crowley walking his beloved Juliet. At first he ducked down and tried speeding away, until he heard him beckon with his Scottish twang. Having been spotted, Castiel made peace with the awkward encounter that would ensue.

It wasn’t as bad as their first meeting.

Without Rowena present Crowley had no reason to stare at Castiel with disdain, instead engaging him in delightful conversation. They parted ways after, surprisingly, Crowley asked Castiel to look over a few things for him.

“Really?”

“I was talking with Bobby and he mentioned about the work you’ve done for Dean -” Castiel couldn’t believe how fast word spread, seeing as it was only the other day he spoke with the aforementioned diner owner, “-and got to thinking you might be able to help me, actually.”

“I can?”

“I want you to take a look at some sales records and figure out what sells more over others,” Crowley asked, “I’ve been trying to get _ somebody _ to see reason about a few things but she won’t take my word for it… maybe if I had some proof.”

Castiel agreed, walking with Crowley back to his store so he could immediately start working.

“You should also check in with Bobby,” Crowley told him while handing him the files, “Bobby Singer, he owns the salvage yard over by the junior high. He’s been thinking about asking after your services as well.”

Castiel paid Bobby a visit almost immediately after, not wasting any time on finding another client. It turned out that he had already met Bobby, albeit briefly. He’s a familiar face at Colette’s, the memory of him laughing at his joke that one awful morning almost a month ago stuck out the most.

While he seemed surly at first glance, Bobby was a pleasant man who spoke plainly. He cut to the chase and didn’t waste his words. After a brief conversation to see if Castiel was the kind of man he wanted to do business with, he handed him a couple of files for him to review. “Take your time,” he told Castiel, “I’m not in any rush.”

With two different projects to focus on, Castiel was glad for the lax deadline. Work he wouldn’t have gotten if not for Dean giving him a chance to prove himself.

Dean, who he now watches without his permission, because seeing him out of an apron makes his mind short circuit. It’s not like his outfit has totally changed from what he normally wears, the plaid shirt and blue jeans a near constant. Still the different environment shifts the social landscape between them.

Briefly he considers backtracking from the aisle, uncertain if Dean would want to see them without the promise of money shifting hands when they part. But then the squeaky wheels of his cart round the corner and his children join him.

Jack’s eyes light up, and he bounces towards the other man. “Dean!” he calls, “Dean’s here!”

Hearing his name, Dean looks towards the mouth of the aisle. Seeing who calls to him, Dean’s mouth curls into a soft grin and wipes away any doubt wriggling around inside.

“Jack,” he says once his son reaches him, “How’ve you been?”

“Good. You?”

“Well I was kinda bored… but then you showed up!”

Claire scoffs from beside him, rolling her eyes at how Jack giggles at Dean’s compliment. Castiel shoots her a look before moving forward to join them.

Dean’s gaze flits up when he gets close enough, teeth flashing his way. “Hey there, Cas,” he says, “Shopping, too?”

He nods. “Halloween sprung up on us this year.” Castiel eyes the bags in Dean’s hands. “I guess I could say the same for you?”

Smirking, Dean shakes his head. “Nope. This is because I have no self-control.” Castiel scrunches his face in confusion, causing Dean to chuckle. “I kinda ate all the candy on a crazy binge. Not my fault though, all three Indiana Jones movies were finally available at Blockbuster and I stress eat.”

“You didn’t realize you’d ate an entire _ bag _ of candy?”

“When Harrison Ford’s on the screen I barely notice a thing.” Cheeks tinting a strange shade of pink, Dean asks him, “You forgot it was Halloween?”

“I’ve had a busy October,” Castiel says, “Going over your paperwork, settling in, and…” He glances briefly over at Claire, glad she’s distracted by a giant bag of lollipops. “Other things.”

Dean tracks his gaze, nodding in clear understanding. “You got time though, no need to write it off as a lost cause.” He leans down, directing his next question to Jack. “What are you gonna be for Halloween?”

“I don’t know yet.”

Caught off guard, Dean looks between father and son with a faltering smile. “Oh? Why not?”

“All these costumes here suck,” Jack says, “Usually mom makes all of us costumes, but she’s too busy and... not here.” The excitement from seeing Dean deflates, his son sulking like a sad balloon.

Castiel reaches forward and squeezes Jack’s shoulder. “I’m sure she would have loved to have made costumes for us this year, Jack. But she’s doing very important work.”

“Yeah…”

Dean stands at full height again, frowning. They’ve been around each other long enough to recognize his thinking expression, lips puckered in a contemplative pout. “I don’t get it,” Dean starts, “can’t you make him a costume, Cas?”

Laughing, Castiel scratches at his neck. “I’m not the most creative person,” he tells Dean, “nor the most handy. Kelly, though, was able to make these fantastic looking pieces that rivalled any store bought costumes.”

“That shouldn’t stop you, Cas.”

“Even if I didn’t there’s not enough time,” Castiel says, “Halloween’s right around the corner and I have so much on my place it is. Which reminds me… thank you for your help.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m looking over Bobby and Crowley’s records. Apparently a glowing recommendation from a certain diner owner tipped the scales in my favor.”

Dean flushes bright red now, the color helping his freckles stand out. “It was nothing, Cas. I left one of the papers out on the counter and Bobby saw, and I couldn’t stop myself from explaining what you did.”

“I only did what I was supposed to do,” Castiel says, “I told you that.”

“I know but… it’s still amazing what you did. When you put your mind to something, you really give your all. It shows.” Sparks dance behind his eyes, the sight sending a chill of nerves up Castiel’s spine. Dean opens his mouth, about to speak again, only for someone to gasp from the other end of the aisle.

“Dean Winchester? What are the odds of running into _ you _ here?”

A woman in a green blouse and denim culottes pushes her cart over, strawberry blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail much like her daughter’s in the cart seat. “I was just thinking about heading on over to Colette’s after finishing up here but it looks like I don’t have to!”

Dean withdraws, a shocking feat for someone so lively. He drags out a greeting, shuffling on his feet like he hoped to run at a moment’s notice. “How’re you doing today?”

“I was okay… but I’m doing much better now.” She licks her lips, eyeing Dean up like Castiel did the steaks he saw go on sale in the frozen aisle.

Urged on by a vice around his gut, Castiel clears his throat rather loudly and draws the attention back to him. “Hello,” he starts, “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Castiel.”

He holds his hand out for her to shake, which she does weakly. “Lydia,” she says, “and this here’s my daughter Emma.” Emma turns at the sound of her name, fingers shoved into her drool-soaked mouth.

“Well,” he says, squinting, “is she not the cutest little thing?”

“Isn’t she?” Lydia drags Emma out of her seat, showing her off, “I was afraid she’d look like her daddy but she only got his nose, thank the Lord. Most people say she doesn’t even look like his. In fact,” she smirks, “I always get asked if she might be yours, Dean.”

Castiel raises a brow. “What?”

“Well she has green eyes, and her hair’s a touch blonder,” Lydia pushes Emma’s face against Dean’s. Dean winces in discomfort, biting his lip as if to prevent himself from saying something he shouldn’t. “And they’ve got the same chin.”

Emma’s chin exists like the people Lydia claims confuse her daughter for Dean’s. 

Castiel takes another look at Dean and his heart twists at how obviously he wishes this conversation to come to an end. He remembers what Anna said about Dean, and guesses that interactions like this have become commonplace for him. Maybe that’s why he never leaves Colette’s, he thinks, at least the counter keeps his fans at bay.

“I’ll have to take your word for it,” Castiel shrugs, “since I can’t see any sort of resemblance between them at all.”

Claire snorts from behind him, and Dean’s features soften in gratitude. Both reactions help distract from the severe frown Lydia directs at him.

She tucks Emma back into her seat, the little girl oblivious to how cold her mother’s become. “The lighting isn’t too good here,” she sniffs, “if we were out in the sun it’d be easier to tell.”

“Okay.”

“Y’know,” Lydia turns to Dean again, done with Castiel, “I was just about to finish up here anyway. Hopefully you won’t be long, too, and we can run into each other again at Colette’s.”

“...Maybe.”

Castiel budges his way into the conversation again. “It was nice meeting you Lydia.”

“Likewise, Casteel.”

“Cast_iel _.”

“That’s what I said, isn’t it?” She reverses out the aisle and away from them. The second her card disappears Dean sags against the shelves, a large breath _ whooshing _ past his teeth.

“Thank you,” he says, “Seriously. I think that’s the shortest she’s ever done that.”

Claire scoffs, rolling beside them with a smirk on her lips. “She could go _ longer _?”

“When she was pregnant with Emma she kept asking me to touch her stomach every few minutes,” Dean tells them in a hurried whisper, like any loud noises would draw Lydia back with a fury. “Kept talking to me about babies, asking if I ever thought about having any and making jokes about what it would be like if _ we _ had kids. Except I don’t think those were jokes ‘cause she never laughed.”

“Christ,” Claire says, “are you sure she’s not just the world’s worst hinter and you _ are _ the father.”

Castiel hisses, “Claire -”

“No it’s okay,” Dean sighs, a bag of assorted candy held up weakly. He turns to Claire, “Trust me, no matter how much she _ hints _ I get the message. And I _ don’t _ want it.” His jaw sets awkwardly, posture stiff and tired, and Claire scuffs her shoe in response. Silence is her apology.

“You seem used to this kind of behavior,” Castiel says, taking the heat away from his daughter, “does this happen often?”

“Babies shoved in my face? No, that was a first,” Dean chuckles, “but women cornering me while I’m going about my day? Par for the fu-_ fudging _ course.”

Castiel smiles at the slip. “It must be exhausting dealing with them.”

“I’ve learned to get used to it. It’s not like I can say or do anything that can change their minds.”

“You could always get a girlfriend?”

Dean wheezes out a strange laugh, startling Castiel. The grin plastered to his face is plastic and phony, distorting all the usual warmth glowing from within. “Like I said, nothing would stop them…”

Castiel’s expression falters, thrown off by the sudden shift in mood from Dean. He froze faster than if he went swimming in a lake partway turned to ice. About to sift through his actions, to see what he might have said to provoke such a response from the other man, Dean distracts him by stuffing one of the bags in his hands onto the shelf.

“I think this should be enough,” he says, “I still left half a bag when Sam caught me.”

Dean steps back, away from Castiel. Acting on impulse, he follows, Dean’s name on his lips.

“Y’know,” Dean says, frantically looking anywhere but at Castiel, “I think that you should make costumes.”

Thrown off completely, Castiel can only ask, “What?”

“I know you said you’re busy but… things that’re important, you _ make _time for them. S’why you’re here, ain’t it? You could’ve have decided this holiday was a failure and not even attempt to celebrate it but you’re here. That already says something…”

“But… I don’t - I have no idea where to start or, or what to do? It could look terrible -”

“I doubt that Cas,” Dean tells him, a fraction of his genuine smile returning as he finally meets his stare. “But even if it is ‘terrible’ looking… it doesn’t matter. What does is that when you’re done you can look at it and be proud you did it at all.”

Castiel nods, too awed to form words.

“I really got to go,” Dean says then, backing away, “I used my lunch break to come here and I don’t have long. I’ll see you all later - Jack, Claire… Cas.” He salutes them before disappearing around the corner.

Claire pushes the cart so she stands next to her father, nudging him. “He was acting odd, right? It wasn’t just me?”

“No… no he was…” Shaking his head, he pushes thoughts of Dean’s behavior away and focuses on his words. Inside he already feels the change, an ember sparked that has the potential to become an inferno.

Castiel turns to his children, asking them, “If I made you two costumes, would you wear them?”

Jack answers emphatically, nodding so hard his head was liable to fall off. Claire crosses her arms, however, and warily raises her brow. “As long as I don’t look stupid.”

“... I can’t promise that.”

She mulls it over, sighing. “Fine. But I’m picking what you make.”

“Within _ reason _.”

“Trust me, I don’t want to test your already limited skills.”

“Good,” Castiel smiles, looking between them. “Why don’t we finish shopping and then we can head home and see what we can come up with, yes?”

Throughout the rest of their shopping, the confidence Dean inspired stays with him. At no point does it waver, doused by doubts that he can’t give Jack or Claire what Kelly could. He pushes back, thinking that while he may not replicate his ex-wife’s talent, he can make up for it with enthusiasm.

Halloween is less scary than he imagined.

* * *

Castiel fiddles with the straps under his armpits, searching for a way to have them sit right without annoying him. In response to his tampering, the cardboard cutouts behind him slam into his head and skew his halo. Huffing, Castiel moves to fix the headband and glares, as best he could, at the eggshell white wings.

“Having trouble there, angel?”

Gabriel smirks around a lollipop, laughing at Castiel’s frustration. Castiel shift his ire to his brother, an easier target, and shoves him off the sidewalk. Gabriel waddles off course and nearly falls onto someone’s lawn, but saves himself at the last moment and returns to Castiel’s side like nothing happened. The only sign of Castiel’s push being the crooked tilt to his brother’s pirate hat.

“Aye,” Gabriel huffs, pointing the cherry nub of his candy at him, “I should make you walk the plank for that!”

“Shove a pegleg in your blowhole.”

“Such language from an agent of the Lord?” his brother tuts, wagging the candy now, “What if the children heard an angel use such language?”

Castiel glances over to where Jack and Sam wait, bags open in front of them, as the homeowner dressed like a witch digs around her cauldron for candy. “I’m lucky then,” Castiel says, “the only _ child _ who heard me is far too corrupted to be saved.”

“Arrgh…”

Their argument tapers off, in time for Jack and Sam to scamper back with smiles on their faces. Sam’s mask for his Power Rangers costume, blue like his favorite character, sits atop his head. Anna told him how they spent hours trying on costumes before they found one he liked. And even then it doesn’t sit right, the cuffs tucked up so he doesn’t trip on them and the chest too baggy.

Jack’s fits perfectly, in contrast, although the quality is far less than his cousin’s.

“So Jack,” Castiel asked his youngest, a piece of computer paper in front of them, “do you have any idea what you might want to be for Halloween?”

It was two days after that fateful run-in with Dean, and he gave his children space so they could get some ideas. Claire didn’t need much time, telling him the morning after she planned to go as a zombie. His contributions to her outfit was the different paints and makeup she needed to visually capture a reanimated body.

Jack, however, waited until Castiel approached him. He seemed almost bashful to tell him, fiddling with the pencil Castiel gave him.

Castiel smiled, whispering, “If you’d rather draw it… let it be a surprise?”

His son nods, pulling the paper closer before doodling. Castiel looks away, studying the sink and its dirty contents. He debates whether getting up to wash a few, only for Jack to finish when he makes a decision.

Jack hands the paper over, lips thinned out like he expects Castiel to hate it. Castiel takes in what his son drew, silent only so he can figure out what it was that’s on the paper. When he does, he says, “You want to be a candy bar?”

“Yeah… is it - is it dumb?”

“If you want to be a candy bar,” Castiel shrugs, “We’re going to make you the best danged candy bar anyone’s ever seen.”

He may look a little melted, but he didn’t start that way. The cardboard, salvaged from the boxes that carried their things over, was stiff when Castiel laid it out. Along the way it might have bent and creased, like when Castiel leaned on it while painting it brown or where the tape squeezed too tight. But thankfully the tinfoil and wrapping paper hides most of it. The only part that’s exposed cardboard is the top, where Jack’s face sticks out from a wonky hole. The wrapper starts below it, both it and the tinfoil ripped for accuracy. Castiel was very proud of his work, beaming when Jack spun around to get a full look at himself in the mirror. Pride became horror, though, when his son turned to him and asked, “What’s your costume look like?”

It took a day to make, most of the time spent wondering what he could churn out in so little time. Borrowing an old headband from Claire and repurposing leftover materials and spare Christmas decorations, Castiel was ready.

Even if he looked ridiculous.

“On to the next house!” Gabriel cries, plastic sword stretched high overhead as he goads the kids into chasing after him, Castiel following with a fond roll of his eyes. The three of them bound up the stoop to the next house and ring the doorbell, Gabriel beside them this time. They shout “Trick or Treat!” as the door opens, and Castiel readies himself for whatever character comes out to hand them candy.

It’s a familiar one.

“Dean!” Jack says, “Dean, is that you?”

Dean chuckles, glancing down at his costume. “I’m not wearing a mask, am I? Although... “ his hand shifts away from the bowl and rests on his hip, “I’m pretty sure you’re supposed to be in the bowl and not out on the streets.” Jack and Sam giggle at the joke, while Gabriel huffs.

“Dean,” Castiel greets him now, having caught up to the group, “I didn’t know you lived here.”

“What,” he says, “you thought I lived at the diner?”

He breaks their stare, unwilling to look Dean in the eyes. “Perhaps…”

Startled, Dean laughs so hard he doubles over. He recovers, wiping a tear from his eye. “Man, If I had a nickel every time…”

“If you had a nickel! What if _ we _ got some _ candy _!”

Gabriel stomps his foot, pouting. Dean raises a brow, unimpressed. “Like you need any more sugar in you, No Beard.”

“Says the nerf herder.”

“Hey now,” Dean glares at him, “you don’t get to call me that.”

Gabriel scoffs. “Then who? Not like you have a _ Leia _ to do so…”

Dean blushes, dialing up the intensity of his frown. Castiel steps in, not wanting to have his brother’s murder on his hands. “You look good, Dean,” he says, “like a true rebel pilot.”

The shift is so noticeably instant, the annoyance peeling away like dead skin revealing a brighter expression underneath. “Thanks, Cas. I can’t disrespect Harrison by wearing a shi… crummy costume.”

Castiel nods. “Although I am curious why you didn’t do Indiana Jones?”

Chuckling, Dean drums his finger on his bowl of candy. “Couldn’t do it two years in a row…”

“Do you normally flip between the two?”

“No the year before Indy I was Jack Trainor.”

“...Who’s that?”

Dean drops _ his _ gaze this time. “Harrison Ford’s character from Working Girl.”

“Hah!” Gabriel barks, “Sounds like someone’s got a crush.”

Castiel goes to nudge his brother in the ribs, to stop pestering Dean. But then Dean’s head shoots up so quickly he fears it might fly off. His eyes are wide, wild looking, and he stretches his lips into a nervous smile. “What? That’s… that’s ridiculous. I mean, he’s just a great actor s’all… and y’know maybe you… you have the…” Clearing his throat, Dean starts searching through his candy bowl. ”You probably don’t want to listen to us grown ups talk,” he addresses the kids, “you want this, right?”

His brother snorts, whispering to him. “Yikes. Someone must have a sore spot…”

The yelp Gabriel gives him is little relief for the strangeness Dean stirred up inside. He’s the only one to still care about the other man’s reaction, however, as Jack and Sam eagerly accept the handfuls of candy and Gabriel leers at a few women walking past, back turned to them.

“Wow!” Sam says, “this is a lot…”

“You kids deserve it,” Dean says, calmer now, “and I expect you boys to finish it _ all _, tonight… an annoy your uncle after.” They share a laugh, the boys agreeing.

Dean rises, meeting Castiel’s curious stare. He licks his lips, an odd moment to do so, and holds the bowl out towards him. “You want some?”

Castiel looks into the bowl. Smirking, he plucks out a box of nerds and shakes it between them. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Anytime, Cas.”

_ Cas _. It’s not the first time he’s called him that, but the first that Castiel allows himself to lean into his senses. Hear how Dean cradles the word in his mouth like you would a newborn. See how Dean’s eyes light up for the fraction of a second it takes to utter his name. Feel the effect on him as his breath hitches and heart skips a beat.

They stare at each other like they’re wont to do. Castiel wants to say something, break the silence, but nothing seems appropriate to burst the bubble they’re in. Jack does it without thought.

“No!”

Castiel spins around to see Jack staring at where his candy pours out from his bag. Like a waterfall it gushes down onto the walkway leaving a tiny pool of sugar. Scanning for the cause, Castiel spots a small, but sharp, branch jutting out from beside a bush with a piece of fabric caught on it.

“Well,” Gabriel says, already on the block again, “that sure does suck.”

He sighs, shuffling over to where Jack picks up his candy to futility toss into his ripped bag and carefully bent over so as not to break his costume. Jack stills when Castiel lays a hand on his arm.

“Jack,” Castiel says, “Jack what do you think you’re doing?”

“Five second rule, dad!” he tells him, “If I move fast enough…”

“But your bag?”

“...Right.” Jack juts out his lower lip, casting sad puppy dog eyes up at him. “Dad? What am I going to do? All this candy…”

Castiel bends down, picking up some with a small smile. “Thankfully these have wrappers. But my pockets aren’t large enough to carry it all.”

“You don’t have to!”

He crooks his head up to where Dean stands at the edge of his porch. “What?”

“I mean,” he takes a step back, “if you can gather it all… I might have an extra bag?”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, more sure of himself, “we wouldn’t want Jack’s hard work to go to waste and all…”

Castiel turns to Jack. “Would that be okay with you?” His answer is the handfuls of candy his son already gathered. “I guess it is.” He sweeps most of it close to him and picks it up, looking back at his family. “Gabe, you don’t have to wait for us. You and Sam can hit up the rest of the houses on this block and we’ll find you.”

“No problem, Cassie,” Gabriel says, leading Sam away, “you two have fun with the local bachelor!”

Dean’s eye twitches, following his brother with a heated glare. “Sometimes I want to beat him with a stick until all the candy he’s eaten flies out.”

“Now Dean, that’s not very nice,” Castiel tells him, “Besides… you’d have to get in line. Immediate family gets first swing.”

He chuckles. “Hopefully I can wait long enough for my turn.”

“Patience is a virtue.”

“Who said?”

“God.”

“You sure?” he asks, “How do you know?”

“I know because I’m an angel.”

“No foolin’? Cause to me you look like a holy tax accountant.”

Castiel’s neck heats up, cursing himself for not changing out of his suit before heading out. But Jack’s persistence could not be matched, and he was dragged from the house. It rears itself again as the younger boy squeezes between the two men and over to the house. “Come on dad! Dean! We can’t let them get too far ahead!”

Dean jerks his head at the open doorway, “You heard the boss.”

He walks in, glancing around at the hallway. It’s similar to his, with a set of stairs a few feet away and two open archways on either side. Jack hurries into the left, Castiel calling after him. “Jack! Wait for Dean!”

“It’s okay,” he says from behind, shutting the door and placing the bowl of candy on a nearby console table, “It’s not like Sam left his gun _ loaded _…”

“His _ what _?”

“Kidding, kidding!” Dean says, following Jack, “He keeps it in his safe like every responsible gun owner.”

“Dean…”

They pass through a living room, painted a soft green and accented by cream colored curtains, with a brown leather sectional and glass coffee table in the middle. Three boxes with the Blockbuster logo on them are spread across it, along with a magazine with a car on it and a copy of Men’s Fitness with a shirtless, sweat-covered man on it. It looks well worn, edges curling as if rolled up most of the time. “Sam’s too,” Dean mentions faux casually, tracking his gaze, “guy’s like… _ super _ obsessed with being healthy. Makes a lot of salads.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah…” Dean moves into the next room, where Jack waits. Castiel picks up his pace so as to dump his pile into Jack’s on the center counter, beside the bowl of fruit. “Sit tight,” he says, “I’m sure there’s got to be a good bag here _ somewhere _.” He opens up a cabinet door, crouching down and giving Castiel a full view of the many snacks and ingredients he keeps there.

Each shelf varies, from bags of chips, popcorn, and puffs at the top to boxes of cereal on the bottom. A bag of sugar teeters on the edge, at eye level Castiel. The sight testing Castiel’s nerves, he shifts his focus elsewhere in the room.

Unlike his at home, Dean’s sink is clean and stainless. Dishes dry on a rack nearby, an eclectic assortment of china and novelty plates. Creeping forward he checks the fancy stove and microwave, with more buttons than he remembers seeing on his own. “Wow,” he says, “I’ve never seen anything like that before…”

“Was hell to install,” Dean tells him, now digging through a cabinet nearby, “Had to have the older models dragged out… oil leaked on the carpet so that had to go too, and when we saw the hardwood underneath we ended up having the entire place re-floored.” He shuts the cabinet door with a sigh, “Don’t know how gramps would’ve liked to see us tear up his home…”

“Gramps?”

“My grandfather,” he says, moving onto another cabinet, “Me and Sam moved here after his -”

“His death, yes,” Castiel cuts him off, “Sam told me this the day we met.”

“Pretty heavy for a ‘get to know you’ conversation.”

“He was trying to distract me from thoughts that I’ve abandoned my children.” Dean snorts with his head buried, the sound distorted and echoey. “And it worked. I was sad to hear that Henry passed.”

Dean pops up, eyes wide. “You knew him?”

“I visited the library very frequently in my youth… he was a nice man, I remember.”

“Yeah,” Dean smiles, hurtling back into the past given how his eyes glaze over, “he sure was.”

Castiel lets him sit in the memory, waiting until the fog fades from his eyes. “I’m sure he’d be okay with the changes, although I don’t think he’d understand what half of those buttons are for. I’m not sure I do either.”

Pulling himself up, Dean steps over to the oven. “I was getting tired of the old one that was here… didn’t like risking my eyebrows every time I tried lighting it. So Sam and I pooled our money together and used it to upgrade. Once it was all set up I had a place where I could cook whatever I wanted.”

“Right, you said you could do that.”

“Seriously Cas, one day you’ve got to let me make you something. You’ll be wishing it was _ me _ back in the kitchen rather than Benny.”

“One day Dean,” Castiel says, “But not today.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look put out. Instead his eyes sparkle like pearls, the crinkles around them reminiscent of clams. Castiel’s smile brightens being the cause of such brilliance.

Jack groans. “Dean!” he says, “Did you find a bag?”

“Sorry, little dude,” Dean says, “For once our house is all out of bags. _ But _I think I have something even better…” He opens a third cabinet, this one next to his fridge, and shows off a roll of duct tape. “A few strips of this and your bag’ll be brand new.”

“Awesome!”

Dean stretches the tape out, biting it off with his teeth. “Nurse Cas,” he says, “can you prep the bag for surgery?”

“Of course, Doctor.” Castiel flattens the bag, keeping the fabric flat so it doesn’t bunch. Dean slowly lays the silver tape across the gash and smooths out any bumps with his hand. Then he rips off two more strips and secures it further.

“Okay, give it a try!”

Castiel holds the bag open as Jack dumps all his candy back in. Nothing falls out, and the three celebrate. Dean holds his hand out to Jack for a very loud high-five, and does the same for Castiel. His slap is much more subdued.

“Thanks, Dean!” Jack says, swinging the bag, “Now it looks even cooler!”

“Just be careful around bushes this time.” Jack disappears around the corner, most likely towards the door.

“Thank you Dean, truly,” Castiel says, leaning against the counter, “I know you didn’t have to -”

Dean waves him off. “Bull. It was the right thing to do. Besides Jack looked so crushed when it all poured out and… well, I’m not really a fan of sour candy.”

“God, that’s so _ lame _.”

“_You’re lame, Cas _.”

His chuckles die down, and Castiel skews his head to the side. “You keep calling me that… why?”

Dean mirrors his frown. “Pretty sure this is the first time I’ve said you were lame.”

“No, no… Cas.”

“Cas?” he says, “You want to know why I call you Cas?”

“Yes.”

“Has no one ever called you Cas before?”

“No,” Castiel tells him, “I’ve had a lot of nicknames in my life, but none of them were ever so… _ simple _.”

“Do you…” Dean fiddles with the roll of tape in his hand, “Do you not want me to call you that anymore?”

He thinks about it, needlessly, since the answer was already decided. “No… I like it.”

Dean grins, shuddering out a breath. “Good, great.”

“Dad!” Jack shouts from far away, “Dad come on, I can’t see Uncle Gabe or Sam anymore!”

Castiel sighs, offering Dean a tired smile. “I better be going. It was nice seeing you again.”

“Always a pleasure to see the Novaks… well,” he amends, “most of them.”

Chuckling, they move towards the front door. “I’ll let Gabe know what you said.”

“He already knows, don’t worry.”

Standing past the entryway, Castiel meets Dean’s gaze one last time. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

“Dad, come on!” Jack drags him away and down the steps, “I’m sure we can carry even _ more _ candy with the duct tape!”

Castiel puts Dean and his house behind him as they reach the side block. “You have enough candy. We’re going home after two more blocks.”

“But -”

“No buts.”

“..._ Fine _.”

They head out to find the others, both Novak boys with a spring in their step after their unexpected pitstop on Halloween.


	5. Dean's Day Off

Dean stirs under his sheets, lost in a delicious dream involving stubble, a gravelly voice, and whipped cream. Tanned hands trail their way down his chest, smearing themselves in the cream and rubbing it further into his skin. “Yes,” Dean moans, turning over on his pillow, “Lick me clean…”

Too soon the dream fades, blue eyes winking away. Dean blinks open with a mournful groan, not wanting his fantasy to end. Slowly, though, his eyes adjust to the soft light of his room. He yawns, squinting over towards his nightstand to see what time it is.

An unusual seven stares back at him, followed by a two and a three. Once he realizes what the numbers mean, he shoots out of bed. “Shit,” he curses, landing on the floor, “Fuck shit fuck fuck fuck…” He flings the covers in a messy attempt to leave his bed partially made, forgoing his usual slippers and robes to change into his clothes.

Dean grabs a pair of jeans from atop the laundry pile, sniffing it. Deemed acceptable he hops into them. Like hell I’m wasting a good pair of jeans if I’m not showering, he thinks as he grabs a flannel from nearby and shoves his arms through it.

Running out the room, Dean slides into the kitchen in a panic. He spies his brother’s large form at the breakfast bar, bent over with pieces of the newspaper peeking out from behind his head. “Sorry, Sammy,” he says, tearing a banana off the bunch, “don’t have time to make you pancakes -”

“Dean.”

“I’m gonna be breaking about twelve road laws so if you could let your friends down at the office know that -”

“Dean!”

He pauses, glancing up at his brother. Sam watches him with amusement shining in his eyes. “What is it Sam?” he huffs, “I don’t have time for this. I’m gonna be -”

“You’re not going anywhere today.”

The banana nearly drops from shock. He squeezes too hard trying to keep it from hitting the ground, a bit of it oozes out the top. Sighing, he places the banana back with its siblings and faces Sam.

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re not going to work today.”

“Really? Why not?”

“Because you’ve been working too hard again.”

Dean rolls his eyes, glaring at his brother. “I’ve been working the normal amount!”

“Then why were you in such a panic just now?”

“Because I was going to be _ late _!”

“Not like you can get fired, you’re the boss.”

“Exactly! What kind of credibility do I have if I show up whenever I want? D’you even know what they’re gonna say when I stroll in an hour after when I was supposed to be there? They’re not gonna buy the whole ‘slept through the alarm’ story, unless…” His mind shakes off the last traces of anxiety, freeing up the space he needed to connect the dots. Dean glares at Sam, “You messed with my alarm didn’t you?”

Sam scoffs, turning the page of his paper. “I turned it off.”

“_Why? _”

“Because today’s your day _ off _ ,” Sam says, slipping into his clipped officer tone, “Don’t think I didn’t notice how you threw yourself into the diner last week. I know _ why _.” Then, younger brother worry seeping in, “You’re gonna run yourself ragged, Dean. She wouldn’t want that. Take the day.”

Dean sighs, shoulders drooping. He hoped Sam hadn’t noticed, his own schedule that week hectic as all hell. But ever the nuisance he manages to catch Dean exactly when he doesn’t want to be caught. With this, with car keys in hand after he broke his leg, and with Tommy Lancaster his senior year.

“Fine,” he relents, “but _ you’re _ calling the diner and telling them why I’m not coming in. Held hostage by little brother.”

“They already know, Dean,” Sam tells him, “I couldn’t do this alone. Benny’s covering your ass.”

“Wow, must have been really important if you worked with _ Benny _ .” Sam doesn’t respond to his teasing, instead shoving a spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth while also giving Dean a ‘ _ I’m ignoring you _’ bitchface.

Sam and Benny never really got along since the moment they met. Benny thinks it’s because Sam’s jealous of how close he was to Dean. Sam says it’s because he’s a former felon and as a cop he’s naturally suspicious. Dean knows it’s because his brother thinks he has a crush on his cook - which he _ doesn’t _. Anymore.

It’s bad to mix business and pleasure.

There were some feelings at first. When a man rides into town on a motorcycle of course anyone with taste would have their motors revving. Something about those overpowered bicycles made men a thousand times sexier, Dean rationalized. He blamed it on all the times John let him watch Easy Rider. Peter Fonda’s ass is magic.

But then Dean came to know Benny; learned his story. Going to jail in place of his lover, after finding out it was betrayal from the start carved a tiny space in his heart for the man. Getting drunk and having him make his grandmother’s old gumbo recipe for them to eat, that gave him the idea to hire Benny. He only needs his friend to cook.

Dean has someone else to waste his affections on, anyway.

“Stop it.”

He snaps out of his fantasy to find a very familiar expression on his brother. The ‘_ Stop thinking about dick you dick _’ bitchface. It amazes Dean how Sam can express a variety of emotions from a thin lip line and drawn brows. But over the years he’s categorized them all.

“What?” he asks, smile stretching until his dimples innocently pop out.

“I thought I told you to keep your mind _ off _ of divorced fathers.”

“Maybe I wasn’t thinking about him, ever think about that?”

“No, you were,” Sam says, “You do this thing, where your lips curl and your lids close halfway… I’ve seen you slip into that face when you talk about him sometimes.”

Dean grumbles, blush staining his cheeks. “So what if it does that…”

“Dean,” Sam starts, paper folded and put off to the side. Dean bites back the comment he has ready to lash out, knowing it’ll only drag out his brother’s lecture before it begins. It’s been like this ever since Cas moved into town. “Dean, he’s divorced from a woman,” he said after Dean told him how cute his angel costume was. “Dean, he has kids,” he reminded him after an hour-long conversation of when Castiel ate in his diner for the first time. “Dean, I know what you’re thinking and you should stop it right _ now _,” Sam hissed as the Novaks left Colette’s for the first time.

He was never good at doing what other people tell him to do.

“It’s not like I’m going to act on it or anything,” Dean cuts him off gently, poking at the banana, “I meant it when I said I was done _ actin’ _ on it and all… but I’m no saint. What’s the harm in a little daydreaming?”

Sam sighs and picks up his bowl. “I don’t want you to get hurt.” He says on his way to the sink.

Dean pouts. “I’m a big boy.”

“Big boys can get their hearts broken, too.”

“...Don’t _ you _ have to go to work? I doubt we both have the day off.”

“In a bit,” Sam tells him, “there’s… something else.”

Dean doesn’t care for that at all. He turns so he can look at his brother, who fortunately busies himself with washing his bowl. “What?”

Sam draws the silence out, letting the faucet speak for him as the water rushes out. Dean’s patience thins and he almost barks another question at Sam. But his brother clears his throat as he’s about to and shuts the water off. “Dad called the other day.”

Dean’s mouth thins so much he’s sure it must disappear. “What he want?”

“What he always wants around this time of year,” Sam tells him, still not facing him, “a shoulder to lean on, to listen to him talk about the good old days when we had the house and we were…”

Scoffing, Dean shoves off the bar. “When we were all a big ol’ happy family? Those great four years?” Sam doesn’t say anything. “Did he ask about me?”

“Do you really want to know?”

He isn’t sure which is worse, but picks his poison anyway. “Yes.”

“I mentioned how you were doing,” Sam hums, running a dish towel so harshly against his bowl, the china squeaking, “he didn’t immediately hang up, but…”

“But?”

“He asked if you were still… _ gay _.”

Dean doubts his father knew the word let alone used it in reference to him. He doesn’t comment all the same, instead taping his cheeks up to mimic a smile. “Very gay, Sammy, I’m so gay. I hope you told him how I’m swimming in cock _ all _ the _ time _.”

“Gross, Dean.” Sam drops the bowl in the sink, finally showing his face. He’s fighting a grin of his own. “Besides we both know the closest to a dick you’ve come to in the past year’s been your own.”

“It’s not about the truth it’s about saying whatever will cause the old bastard’s heart to stop beating fast enough.”

“_Dean _.” He holds his hands up in lieu of an apology, not wanting to fall into this old argument. It’s too early to do so, and he doesn’t want to spend his ‘day off’ licking old wounds and annoyed with Sam. Sam sighs and runs a damp hand through his hair. “All right… yeah… look, I really should go now -”

“I can drive you if you want -”

“You don’t have to,” Sam says, blushing, “I… have a ride.” He pulls at his collar, highlighting the red creeping up his neck.

Dean smirks, the dark storm clouds giving way at the sign of Sam’s discomfort. “You got yourself a ride, Sammy? Who’s picking you up?”

A honk startles them, drawing both their attention to the nearest window. Dean chuckles, dashing away so Sam can’t stop him. He draws the curtains in the living room and squints through the blinds, recognizing the lime green truck idling in front of their driveway.

“Aww,” Dean says, “Isn’t that sweet?” Sam shuffles awkwardly by the door, glaring at him. “I don’t have to go out there and give her the talk, do I?”

“Shove it, Dean.”

“You must be awfully glad she packed up and moved right next door to the sheriff’s office, aren’t you? Otherwise there’d be no reason for her to swing by…” Dean dodges the shove, jumping over the couch and out of reach from his brother’s gigantic hands.

“Dean I swear -”

_ Honk! Honk! _

“You don’t want to keep your girlfriend waiting, Sammy.”

“She’s not my - _ aargh _!” Sam stomps his way over to the door, Dean scurrying to keep up. “I’ve got a long shift today, so I better not hear you going near the diner.”

Dean salutes cheekily. “Scout’s honor.”

“You were never in scouts.”

“_Sam… _”

“Seriously, Dean,” he says, pausing in the open doorway, “try and take some time for yourself. Get more sleep, watch one of your dumb movies or…” he ducks his gaze, “have fun with one of your _ magazines _ -”

“Oh my God…”

“You deserve it,” Sam steps away from the door and off the porch, “really.”

“Yeah, yeah…” He rolls his eyes, heart warming at Sam’s little speech. While it’ll be a struggle fighting against his better nature, Dean will try to be selfish for Sam’s sake. And his first act; “You deserve a nice girlfriend,” he shouts, “why don’t you use the drive to finally ask Eileen out?”

Sam seizes, tripping over his oafish feet. “Dean!”

“What?” he shrugs, “Not like she can hear me.” He sees Eileen bend down to look through the passenger window and wave at him. He returns the gesture, and then points at his brother, puffing up his chest, and screwing the most stupid look on his face. She hides her laugh behind her hand.

Eileen is a nice woman, and perfect for his little brother. Sam met her one day after a seemingly innocent patrol that ended in him arresting a man on animal cruelty and bringing the pitbull in to the local vetrenarian’s office. When he carried the whimpering dog into the lilac-painted waiting room, he should have realized more surprises were in store for him that day.

He was awestruck the second she strode over and pried the pitbull from his hands, carrying it into an operating room to begin removing shrapnel embedded in its leg. When he came to, halfway down the hallway, he attempted telling her a few things about the dog she thought she might need to know. Eileen kept walking and slammed the door in his face without a care.

Still worried about the dog - “And only the dog, Dean, I _ swear _.” - Sam waited in the lobby for Eileen to reappear. She did, tugging off her gloves. Sam stood and approached her. However, his nerves won out, and he mostly talked to his shoes.

He felt a tap on his chin, and Sam dragged his eyes upwards. Eileen signed as she spoke, saying she needed to see his lips if she was going to understand him.

Dean laughed so hard he fell to the floor when Sam told him the story. And when Eileen mentioned to him, after Sam introduced them, how she thought his bumbling apology after realizing was ‘adorable’ he knew it was only a matter of time.

If only Sam could work up to it.

He waits until the truck rounds the corner to head back inside. Shutting the door, he shuffles back into the living room. Dean collapses against the sectional, bored. “Day off,” he sighs, “_ woo _.”

Wriggling, he moves onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.

Time ticks by like molasses, dripping noisily in the back of his mind. He frowns, an itch buzzing under his skin. Dean moves to alleviate it; scratching his arm, kicking off his jeans, shucking his flannel. All it does is leave him dissatisfied, in what he woke up in, and feeling like a ship adrift in a stormy sea. The quiet suffocates him, wringing out bad thoughts like he’s a dirty towel.

“_ If what everyone’s saying is true than my son’s already _ ** _dead_ ** _ . _”

“Well,” Dean throws himself into a sitting position, snatching the remote, “I wonder how much bad TV’s on ‘till it’s time for Bob Barker.”

Channel surfing dulls the memories somewhat, but Dean still feels the phantom twinging of the scars.

* * *

Dean’s pretty sure Sam won’t pitch a fit if he comes home to find the garage empty. It’s not a sign that he stole away the moment he could to chain himself to his counter and demand people leave him alone and let him work in peace. He could do that, but he’s spent so much time building a customer base since he took the reigns from Cain he’d hate to blow it all by showing how crazy he is.

Instead Dean keeps a healthy distance away from Colette’s, cruising pointlessly around town with his windows down and music playing. He drums his wheel in time to the beat of his Zepp tape, singing along with Plant as he waits for the red light to turn green.

After a long time camped out in front of the television, the antsy feeling from earlier returned. Dean’s leg bounced as the contestant spun the wheel too hard on ‘Price is Right’, a shock to no one when the arrow landed on five cents instead of the dollar. It became too difficult to focus on the show, and deep inside Dean felt the call to action. He needed to do _ something _.

A shower would be pretty nice, Dean thought. Stripping off his boxers and t-shirt, he gathered his clothes and made the walk to his bathroom naked. November chill leaked in through the hidden gaps of the house, making Dean’s nipples harden and skin goosepimple as a breeze cuts across him. Dean hadn’t regret the nudity, however, since living with Sam meant little to no time spent _ naturally _.

He dumped his dirty laundry off in his room, a small detour, before heading into the bathroom. Smiling, he pulled the shower curtain back with a loud scrape and adjusted the faucet so hot water poured out the showerhead. While he was loathe to take a day off, standing nude in his bathroom with the door open made him appreciate the solitude.

When the temperature reached the right amount of scalding, Dean stepped into the tub and closed the curtain. The water rolled down his body and helped push back against some of the nervous energy, melting it away like an ice cube under a hair dryer.

Dean went through the usual routine, running a bar of soap over himself and using both the shampoo and conditioner - careful to avoid Sam’s two-in-one shampoo and conditioner bottle. How he used it and still maintained a thick head of hair Dean doesn’t know, but he flirted with the idea of replacing the contents inside with Nair in the past. He won’t ever do so, mainly because Sam could murder him and get away with it.

After scrubbing every inch of himself Dean stepped off the marked path and diverged into an activity best suited for an empty house. He reached over to the shower shelf for the lotion, squirting it in his palm and coating both hands with it. One clamped down on his dick, stroking it. The other tiptoed around his hip and over to his cheeks.

Dean propped his leg on the rim of the bathtub, toes curling around the porcelain for balance. His fingers found his now uncovered hole, and he circled the area with his finger. “That’s it,” he muttered, “Take your time, Dean, you have _ all _ day…”

The first finger slipped in easily, hole stretching around it. Dean bit his lip as it sunk in, his hand tugging his dick at an even rhythm. Once his finger settled in his ass nicely, as far as it could go, he wiggled it around. Then he curled it, dragging it out until it ran over a friendly button that caused his dick to seize and sparks to shoot up his spine. “Jackpot.”

He opened himself further. Even with an empty house Dean couldn’t wait to fit two fingers inside his asshole, scissoring his hole so it could fit more. Dean’s hand jerked wildly, tiny bits of precome washing away under the showerhead’s downpour.

Dean turned and bit into his shoulder, stifling his moans only out of habit. When the haze of lust flickered away briefly, and he remembered he’s alone, Dean let go and loudly cursed as he added another finger to jab at his prostate. Jacking in and out, both hands rapidly trying to outpace the other, Dean knew his orgasm would hit at any second.

When it did he screamed. Come sprayed out his flushed dick and onto the tiled walls, oozing down it. His fingers stayed in his ass, hole too clenched to risk tearing them away. At the height of his orgasm, Dean imagined a breath ghosting at his neck, and a deep voice rumbling his name. “_ Dean _…”

He sagged against the wall when finished, trembling from the high. Dean flexed his cramped toes, easing his foot from the porcelain edge. His ragged breaths were accompanied by the still running showerhead until Dean managed the energy to turn it off.

Drying himself off as best he could, Dean walked over towards the couch on wobbly legs and sunk into the welcoming leather upholstery. He grabbed one of the pillows and hugged it to his chest, propping his feet on the coffee table. Price is Right had long since ended, and another show he couldn’t care about played on the screen. The tendrils of anxiousness that he thought were exorcised slowly crept back into his awareness, tickling him at the base of his skull.

Even with an exhausting masturbation session tucked under his imaginary belt, his body would not allow itself to relax. “Fine, y’know what,” he grumbled, slamming the pillow down, “screw this. I’m going out.”

Dean changed into another pair of jeans, from the clean pile he keeps in his drawers, and shrugged on a hoodie. On his way to the door he slipped into a pair of ratty sneakers and pocketed his keys.

Driving relaxes him better than fingers up his ass any day of the week.

Checking his gas tank, Dean sees he still has half of it left. Figures, he thinks, since he visited the local Gas’n’Sip on his way home last night; filling his Baby to the brim and chowing down on a candy bar. He forgot to eat dinner, too busy cleaning after a messy group of diners left a section in complete disarray. The only reason he stopped was because his vision spun while he was behind the wheel.

Dean also forgot to eat breakfast and lunch that day, too. “Stop it,” he tells himself, “you’re just proving Sam more right…”

Turning the corner, he hits another red light and slows to a stop. Glancing out the window, he spies a group of women hunkered by a table near an outdoor cafe. Their faces were protected by the awning, but Dean developed enough of a sense to tell when he was being watched. A _ survival _ instinct. It’s used much differently in Lebanon than it was in Lawrence, but serves the same purpose.

Keep him from being eaten alive.

Dean and the female gaze have a long, complicated history. He’s known he was attractive ever since a graduate student sat in on his trigonometry class and offered him tutoring sessions after handing back his most recent test grade. It was an A. However unlike Lawrence, Dean makes no effort to play into the fantasies.

From the beginning he made it known his disinterest in starting a relationship. Giving wide berths to those who wanted to walk closer down the street or stuffing his hands in his pockets so as to not have nails scrape against them in flirty attempts at signalling. Dean knew all their tricks and performed gravity-defying acrobatics to avoid them.

Unfortunately the aloof and uncaring attitude he wore only made him more desirable, and his groupies redoubled their charms and efforts to be the one to win his affections.

The light changes and Dean speeds away. He risks a ticket, and the chance Sam could be the one to give it to him, to put as much distance between him and the cafe. Dean tightens his grip on the steering wheel and loses himself on the road, world fading away like he stuck a pair of horse blinders over his head. Reflex tells him to find someplace safe to hide away, and muscle memory leads him to it.

His diner’s red letters stand high above all the other buildings, easy to identify from a block away. Dean idles at the stop sign, staring at it. A tiny voice pipes up, sounding awfully familiar. The part of his mind that sounds like Sam chides him for going against his word, demanding he turn left and go home. But then his own thoughts speak over Sam’s mimic, saying how it’s not working if he’s only stopping by. As long as he avoids the counter Sam won’t have anything to be angry about.

Decision made, Dean parks on the corner and heads over.

He couldn’t stay away for long, Colette’s a shining light and Dean a simple moth drawn to it by an unrelenting need. Walking in, with the chime ringing overhead, always reminds him of the first time he stepped into the diner.

Henry’s funeral was the week before, and the Winchesters settled into his old house and did little else. The moving boxes were flattened and waiting for pickup, and the brothers spent the early days figuring out what to do with themselves in their new town. Sam scanned the newspapers, looking for the classifieds section. Dean stirred his cereal disinterestedly, not in the mood to eat.

“Come on,” Sam urged him, frowning at him from behind the paper, “It’s supposed to be soft.”

Dean slammed his spoon onto the table, glaring at him. The problem wasn’t his split lip, its swelling gone down enough that it didn’t hurt anymore. “I don’t _ want _ to eat this.”

“You know you can’t eat anything solid for at least another week.”

Storming out, while at the time felt right, wasn’t an action he thought of fondly. But escape was the only option he saw possible as Sam would follow him no matter which room he chose to camp down in. And all he wanted was to be alone. Split lip, fading bruises, and a scowl scarier than a shootout between Clint Eastwood and any outlaw in his movies kept curious townsfolk at bay. For extra measure, Dean pulled the hood of the sweatshirt he wore high overhead.

He kept his gaze trained on the ground during his walk, not bothering to check for traffic when crossing the street. It must have been hours out on the town before Dean felt his stomach rumble. Usually he ignored it, pushing the sensation down until it faded. Hunger struck with wild abandon, seizing his stomach in a vice. Faltering, Dean leaned up against a nearby wall until it passed.

“God,” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes, “when was the last time I ate?”

Dean hadn’t known the answer; he doubted a higher power would. Regretting not sucking up to Sam’s care and eating the oatmeal, Dean looked up for anywhere to eat.

The name was unfamiliar, but he recognized a diner sign when he saw one.

It was empty when he entered; Dean thinking it closed if not for the dour man with a salt-and-pepper beard and stained apron behind the counter. “Hey,” he started, toying with his hood, “you got any food?”

Counter man arched his brow, “I don’t know.”

Dean squinted at him. “This is a diner isn’t it?”

“When I opened it was, but who knows what happened since then.”

He groaned, pinching his brow. “Can I order something or are you only serving sass today?”

Jerking his thumb at a random booth, Counter man said, “Sit down and a waiter’ll be right over.”

Dean slid into the booth, hunching in on himself. He grabbed a napkin and started tearing into it, strip after strip peeled off and put into a pile to the right. Someone cleared their throat from nearby.

Counter man was no longer at the counter, instead waiting with a menu in hand. “You want to order or just make a mess?”

“...I’ll order.” The menu is thrust into his hand, Counter man rooted to the spot while Dean read through it. While some of the food seemed appetizing, he thought about his lip and the turmoil waged inside his stomach. Luckily about halfway down the one-page menu, under the drinks section, he found something worth ordering. “What flavor milkshakes you got?”

“Vanilla. Chocolate. Strawberry…”

“That it?”

“This ain’t a fancy place. Three flavors get the job done mighty fine.”

Dean’s mouth thinned, stitches disappearing. “I’ll have vanilla.”

“I’ll bring it right out.”

Counter man disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Dean with free reign of his space. He didn’t do much with it, scoping the establishment and casting judgment. Much of the vinyl seating was scratched and beaten, holes visible. In his own booth he spotted at least two places where stuffing was visible. The lighting was strange, because inside was darker than outside. A bulb flickered over the cash register. Dean expected the counter man to reappear, sans milkshake, with a butcher’s knife held high above him.

When the doors swung open again Dean startled, his fantasy leaving his nerves like the napkin shreds. Counter man came at him without a knife, but a very large milkshake. He did stab the straw into the frothy mixture as he walked over, so the potential was there.

“Here.” He placed the milkshake down, and then slid into the open seat across from him.

“Uh… _ thanks _.” Dean said, slumping into his seat. The other man stared at him, unblinking, hands folded on the table. “Don’t you… have to be working?”

“Don’t you think it’s a little strange to keep your hood up indoors?” Dean flinched, glancing away. He heard Counter man sigh softly. “I’m not a stranger to a fight, son.”

There was no point in trying to hide it anymore, Dean thought bitterly. He tugged it off and plastered a too-wide smile onto his face. “You saying you’ve walked away with something worse?”

“No. I always walked away the _ winner _.” He squinted at Dean, frowning harder. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

“What gave it away?” Unresponsive to his sarcasm, Dean gave up and resorted to the plain truth. “Moved here recently with my brother. Name’s Dean.”

“Cain,” Counter man offered up his own name, tapping the table with his forefinger. “So, Dean, what do you know about honeybees?”

Dean smiles at the memory of his first meeting with Cain. It was the beginning of a strange relationship between him and the former owner, but it gave him many wonderful things. The most important being his own business, where can work in peace and not feel judged.

Unless he comes in on days he shouldn’t be working.

“Winchester!” Charlie growls, stomping over to the front, “what are you doing here? It’s your day off.”

Dean cheekily flashed his teeth. “Can’t I stop by and say ‘hi’?”

“Not when I’m under orders to toss you out.”

He doubts Charlie can bum rush him, but doesn’t put it past her to call up Sam. What she lacks in size she makes up for with brainpower. Dean has another idea though. “Listen, I haven’t eaten at all today and I’m starving. I won’t even go _ near _ the counter, all right? If you still don’t trust me I’ll sit on my hands and eat without ‘em. Okay?”

She considers it, pencil whacking at her chin. On the fifth smack she sighs and gestures to the booths. “I’m trusting you. But if I find you trying to make a milkshake then you’re not coming in tomorrow, either.”

“You do remember who’s the _ boss _, right?”

“Benny when you’re not on shift,” she smirks, “Now should I tell him to make your usual?”

“Yeah. And two -”

“Two cherries with your milkshake, I know.” She giggles, glancing out into the crowd, “I had to put an order like that in not too long ago... “ Behavior curious enough to unsettle him, Dean wants to ask her what she meant. Charlie flits away over to the kitchen window to hang the meal ticket.

Sighing, Dean looks amongst the crowd for an answer. He sees them four booths back. Claire and Alex snicker over their sodas, dangling a french fry caked in ketchup between them while Jack stares down at something on his table. Probably homework, Dean surmises.

There’s an empty booth on the other side waiting for customers, but Dean struts on over and raps on their table. “Y’all mind if I join?”

Jack shoots up from his work book, grinning. “Dean! What are you doing here? Charlie said you couldn’t come in?”

“Well Charlie was just covering for me,” he tells the younger boy, “since it’s my day off.”

Claire snorts. “If it’s your day off then why are you here?”

“There’s no better place to be than Colette’s.” He darts his gaze between the Novak siblings, “So? Can I sit?”

Jack turns to Claire, silently pleading. Dean doesn’t worry about Alex, knowing she would say yes. The girl might roll her eyes and talk a big game, but she’s like her mother - all bluster. If Alex really had a problem with him she would have said so years ago. It’s Claire’s verdict that’ll decide whether he joins the cool kids or gets punted off to eat alone in a bathroom stall.

He isn’t sure what Claire feels about him. Unlike her brother, she keeps her emotions in check in his presence. Using indifference like every other teenager to misdirect adults’ attention elsewhere. The act doesn’t work on adults who never emotionally matured; and Dean, being of that ilk, can see weak points in her armor. But he can’t do enough damage to break them.

Claire’s eyes wander over him like a buzzard in the open, cloudless sky. She sighs, “Might as well.”

“Sweet,” Dean shuffles in next to Jack, “So, what we talking ‘bout? School? Parents? _ Boys _?” He wiggles his brows, soaking up the laughter and horror from Alex and Claire, respectively.

Claire sinks down in her seat. “I already regret this.”

“Lighten up, Claire,” Dean chuckles, “I’m only kidding.” _ Half _ \- _ kidding _. A part of Dean yearns for the chance to discuss something so mundane like crushes. He never could tell people who he really liked, and living vicariously through teenage girls isn’t sad if he doesn’t think too hard about it.

“We were talking about school,” Alex says, chewing on a fry, “I was giving Claire some tips for this project she has to do in her English class that I did a year ago.”

“It’s so dumb,” Claire groans, “We have to write this stupid paper-analysis-whatever _ alongside _ taking a scene from the book and turning it into a scene from a play.”

Dean frowns, “That doesn’t sound too hard.”

Alex smirks, nudging Claire. “She’s not upset about that. It’s who she has to _ work with _.”

“Group projects? Barf.” Dean shudders at the mention, buried high school memories resurfacing of being stuck with members who wouldn’t pull their weight or, worse, expect Dean to not do anything so don’t bother to include him. Managing the perfect balance was rare among kids who’d rather spend their time elsewhere than inside a school.

“I can’t believe out of all the people Mr. Mapleswood paired me with _ Patience Turner _.”

“Is she lazy? Failing? Did she knock your lunch tray out of your hands one day at lunch?”

“Oh no, never,” Alex says, “She’s the President of the Sophomore year, Captain of the Volleyball team, and volunteers every Saturday morning at a nearby homeless shelter.”

Dean blinks, thrown by the new set of information. “Then… what’s the problem?”

“She’s too _ perfect _ !” Claire throws her hands up, blush settling on her cheeks, “Always has the right answers, never misses a day of class, hair so… _ bouncy _ . And I have to work with her. She probably won’t let me do anything! Patience rushed out of the room before we could even _ speak _ about the bullshit project -”

“Hey, _ language _.”

Claire scoffs, brushing off Dean’s pointed finger. “What are you, my dad?”

“No, but,” he peeks over at Jack, doodling along the margins of his workbook, “_your _ dad wouldn’t like it if he heard you or _ someone else _ repeating words like that.”

She rolls her eyes. “Jack knows not to swear in front of dad.”

“It’s true,” Jack adds, “I know them all. Our nanny used to shout them whenever she came to pick us up from school, usually whenever someone cut her off.”

Dean blanches, the idea of Jack swearing causing him to short circuit. “Okay?”

Charlie chooses that moment to return with his food. She drops it down with a wink. “You can take a break from managing the diner but you can’t break from babysitting can you?”

Claire huffs, crossing her arms. “We don’t need a babysitter.”

Dean shakes his head, accepting the proffered straw from her and sliding the paper off it. “Well of course,” he says, smiling, “one I do for money… the other because I love it.” Charlie punches him in the shoulder, calling him a ‘sap’ before moving on to the next table. He picks up his burger, readying a bite, when he feels the telltale pricks against his skin from someone watching him.

Jack frowns, staring at Dean with his eyes shining larger than normal. Sighing, Dean places his burger down. “Yes, Jack?”

“D’you mean it?”

“Mean what?”

“You really like hanging out with us?”

The truck that drove over his chest must have had eighteen wheels, because he struggles to recover after Jack’s question. He struggles through a breath, tamping down the urge to drag the younger boy into a hug. Instead he places a firm hand on his shoulder and manages a watery smile. “Of course. You’re some of my favorite people in this town.”

Dean answered honestly.

It’s been a little over three months since Cas and his children have moved in, but he’s seen more of them than he has other townspeople in all the time he lived here. Mostly because they spend a lot of their free time in Colette’s.

When Sam pressed, Dean told his brother that Cas’s attractiveness _ was _ too distracting that he blurted out the suggestion of watching the Novak kids before he thought better of it. He only confessed that because the truth was much more embarrassing. During the first visit, when Dean and Jack conversed over the counter, he was reminded of Ben.

Ben and Lisa leaving hurt. He knew it was for the best, both getting what Dean could never give them.

As much as Dean wanted a son like Ben, he could never be his father. This disappointed not only himself, but Lisa for much different reasons.

With Jack the fantasy revives itself, made only better because of his father. Sometimes, during the intense staring that occurs between him and Cas, the idea of two men raising a family seems more real, achievable, and believable.

But then he crashes back into reality, reminded that the main player in his most recent dreams was twice divorced, and not over one of them from what he could tell. No amount of imagining could erase the wistful sigh and far-off gleam that came from talking about Kelly. Cas remains tight-lipped about what went down between them, but his opinion of her isn’t too high to begin with. What kind of a person would abandon her family? It’s not _ only _ the jealousy coloring his judgment.

Jack’s mouth hangs open, Dean able to see the chewed up pieces of meat amongst his awe. “Wow,” he whispers, “we are?”

“You sure are.”

The group falls back into mindless chatter after that. Dean tells them about the splendor of having a day all to yourself - omitting a few, _ key _ details so it’s better suited for all audiences. Jack, while spewing crumbs everywhere, stars going over details of his own day. About his friend Kaia and how she fell asleep during art and leaned against her wet canvas, streaks of purples and blues staining her cheeks. Claire and Alex offer pieces of their day as well, bit by bit, filling in the gaps between Dean’s and Jack’s stories.

Dean sucks up the dregs of his milkshake when he sees Alex check her watch. “Crap,” she says, “I can’t believe it’s already half-past four.”

“What’s the matter?”

“I have to go home,” she stands, gathering her things, “Mom wanted me back before five. Something about relatives visiting?”

Claire sticks out her tongue. “Sounds awful.”

Alex laughs, tucking a strand of hair behind her head. “I know, I know, it’s so _ gay _, but…”

Her voice fades away, as does the background noise of his diner, all replaced by a shrill ringing that makes his teeth grind into each other. Dean sees Alex wave goodbye, mouth something to him, but he doesn’t understand. He feels weightless, almost like he’s floating outside his own body. The word, the _ context _ with which it was said, tore his soul from his shell and left him gazing down at his hands squeezing the table so hard the knuckles whiten. Claire speaks now, and Dean swims against the current of trauma so he can respond.

When he settles inside, the awful ring gone, he catches, “...gonna do?”

“Say again?”

She repeats herself. “You can go, too, if you want. Our dad’ll be here in, like, any minute.”

Dean swallows past the bile clogging his throat, showing off a shaky smile. “Nah, I ain’t got nothing calling my attention. We’ll all wait for Cas.”

Claire raises a brow at him, curious, but bites her lip to keep any questions at bay. He’s grateful, unsure how he must look. Not in any shape to give an answer, he thinks, that’s for sure. It sucks that he still tenses up at the slightest remark, at the use of the word ‘gay’ or others pertaining to it. Dean figured the years between his last days in Lawrence and the present would dull the awful memories in his past.

Scars don’t disappear. They only fade.

They resume their conversation, albeit with less enthusiasm. Dean leans back into his seat and listens as Claire and Jack talk, absorbing about a third of the conversation. His eyes track his straw as he spins it in lazy circles around his glass.

Jack’s in the middle of a story about a show he watches when the bell above the door jingles. Claire looks past Dean towards it and raises a hand. He hears Cas’s footfalls before he sees him, Dean using the extra seconds to lock down his heartbeat.

It skips over his attempts to control it, laughing as Cas peers down at him. “Dean,” Cas says, “This is odd.”

His cheeks burn at the admission. “Is it?”

“Yes, usually you’re behind the counter.”

Dean chuckles too forcefully at that, relief soaked into the notes at the end. “I’m not really supposed to be here,” Dean mock whispers to him.

Castiel arches a brow, much like his daughter's. “Really?”

He nods. “Today’s my day off.”

“And you spent it…”

“Here,” he says, now realizing how pathetic the admission sounds, “Because honestly, there’s no better place to be than _ my _ diner.” Repeating what he said earlier, Dean hopes he softened the blow to Cas’s perception of him, saving enough credit that the other man decides Dean is too weird to allow near his children. Cas hums, a terrifying sound, but the way his cheeks stuff with hidden laughter allows Dean a chance to breathe. “What made it better,” he continues, earning back more credit by laying it on thick, “was I got to hang out with a few of the coolest kids in all of Lebanon.”

Jack buys what he sells immediately. Cas tilts his head like he usually does, the habit too adorable to call attention to. Meanwhile Claire stares at him like he offered her beans for a cow.

“I’m glad you have such high opinions of my children.”

“I think pretty highly of their dad, too.” And because he can’t control his body, Dean winks. His heart spirals from his chest into his stomach, piercing the organ and dissolving in its acid.

He plays a dangerous game every time he toes the line between friendly and flirty with Cas. So far the other man hasn’t noticed. One day Dean might go too far and ruin everything.

Today isn’t when that happens.

“Come on, dad,” Claire stands, pushing Castiel away, “let’s go home. I have to study for a test tomorrow in Chemistry.”

“But what about the bill -”

Dean waves him off, “This one’s on me for the day.”

He blinks at Dean. “Are you sure? I don’t mind covering for their meals.”

“Think of it as thanks,” Dean shrugs, moving out of the way so Jack could join his family. “Claire and Jack didn’t have to let me sit with them. If they told me to beat it I would’ve. But… they didn’t. I meant it when I said I had fun.”

Cas grins, the corners of his eyes crinkling with joy. Dean nearly faints at the sight, having to hold onto the vinyl seating to stay upright. They enter into another of their staring matches, the blue of Cas’s eyes so easy to drown in. He does so every night.

“Dad,” Claire says again, “let’s go.”

“Yes, well, I guess we should -”

“I’ll walk out with you,” Dean tells him, “I should get going myself. If Sam gets off-shift and finds me not in the house he’s liable to send out the search party.”

His comment earns him a squint from the other man. “Why would he do that?”

“I wasn’t supposed to come in today,” Dean shrugs, “Been working too hard… I was doing fine but _ everyone else _ figured I could use a day to rest. It’s only a day, though, so who am I to complain? Most people would cry if their work told them to take a vacation.”

He sees Charlie’s head whips around to glare at him, lips curled and ready to hone in on all the lies Dean told. Dean returns the expression with added fury, hoping she understands how _ unemployable _ she’ll be if she speaks up. She stomps her foot and carries the tray in her hands to a table.

When they step out, Dean points down the block. “I’m over this way. You?”

“Same,” they fall into step, “I couldn’t believe I found a spot so close. Usually I have to walk two blocks to get here.”

“What can I say? I run a popular business.”

“Popular’s an understatement…” They stop by Cas’s sedan, Jack and Claire waiting by the doors for their father to unlock them. “Where did you park?”

“...Right behind you, actually.” Dean watches Cas slowly shift his gaze from his car to Baby, the black paint shiny in the setting sun. His breath hitches as a smile unfurls across the other man’s face.

“She’s yours?” Dean bites at his lip to stop the giggle. He nods. “Beautiful… you must really care for her.”

“Oil changes every month and waxes biweekly,” Dean tells him, “She’s the special lady in my life, so of course I indulge her every now and then.”

“No wonder you’re single.”

Dean scuffs his foot against the sidewalk, chuckling darkly. “Yeah, that’s why.”

“Enjoy the rest of your day, Dean,” Cas says, walking over to the driver’s side. Claire and Jack wish him the same, Jack waving wildly as he slips into the backseat. Dean mirrors the younger boy, smiling as the Novaks drive off.

He stands in front of his car for another moment, letting the past few hours sink in. The more Dean thinks about all that happened, the giddier he becomes. Every conversation with Cas leaves him feeling more and more like a teenager, and he doesn’t know whether that’s good or bad. While the rush of emotions is addicting, they swing very high and unfortunately very low.

Today they’re at the highest they’ve ever been. Dean pets Baby, sighing. “He thinks you’re beautiful…”

He clings to that the entire ride home, and forgets Cas was twice divorced.


	6. High Expectations

Castiel rubs a tired hand over his jaw, scraping his palm against the stubble. His eyes twitch with the need to blink, but he can’t allow them the satisfaction. Fear that the stuffed plastic baggie before him would disappear keeps his gaze locked and unmoving. Although, he considers, would it be so bad for it to go missing? Then he could wipe his hands and pretend he never found it.

Sighing, he realizes how stupid that sounds. Castiel picks up the baggie again, opens it and sniffs. The smell forces his lips to curl. “Why couldn’t she have brought home oregano? At least then we could’ve had a laugh…”

There’s no mistaking the unique smell of marijuana. He learned quite early what it was; Luke’s room always reeked of it. Castiel asked Gabriel one time what could produce such a foul smell. Gabriel grinned and whispered, “A special kind of cigarette, Cassie. You’ll learn when you’re older.”

He did.

Castiel flings the baggie across the table, too disgusted to keep it in his hands.

“It’s only a plant Castiel,” he reminds himself, “ground up so it’s easier to… _ smoke _.” Castiel shudders, hunching into himself as he replays the scene in which he discovered the baggie.

Laundry was a necessary chore, and Castiel put it off far longer than he should have. When one of your children wears a uniform five days out of the week, though, it’s easy to put it off. However when he realized his underwear drawer neared emptiness, forgoing using the washing machine meant trouble. 

He dumped a large pile in, stuffing the machine with all it could take. Then he slammed the lid and went to focus on his work in the study, bringing with him the timer from the kitchen. Castiel knew without it he’d forget, too lost in his numbers that the clothes would dry inside the machine and he would have to start the rinse cycle all over again. Even with it, tearing himself away from the veterinary clinic’s files was difficult. The timer went off in the middle of transcribing an idea to help them reduce what they pay in taxes. He scratched in a few more notes and then went to switch the wet load over to the dryer.

Resetting the timer, Castiel went to make himself a sandwich instead of continuing his work. Better to eat now, he rationalized, I’ll most likely forget otherwise. He finished cleaning up as the timer sounded again.

Castiel folded the dry laundry into a nearby basket, organizing them for easier distribution. His own clothes went on the bottom, followed by Claire’s and then Jack’s. Underwear and socks were stuffed into the sides. Adjusting the basket onto his hip, he carried the clothes off to their respective rooms.

Jack’s were put away first, Castiel placing the basket on his bed and making quick work of his son’s clothes. There wasn’t much of his in the pile he chose. Castiel prioritized his own depleted wardrobe, and debates starting another load while staring at his son’s jeans. But then he waved the thought away, deciding to do it after dinner.

He expected the visit to Claire’s room would be as swift. Instead, nestled under a button down, Castiel found the baggie.

The basket never made it to his room, abandoned on Claire’s mussed purple sheets.

“I can’t believe she went and did this…” Castiel tugs at his hair, nearly ripping it from his scalp. His chest heaves with pained breaths, the air struggling to find space in his already thin lungs. Panic overtakes his mind, and he leaves the dining room for the top step of the stairs in his old house.

Chuck and Luke were fighting again, the most intense they’ve had. His father, like him, discovered his son’s smoking paraphernalia and saw red. He sat in the dining room stone faced, waiting for Luke to stroll in. Becky ushered he and his siblings to bed without dinner, aware of how frightening Chuck was when he worked himself into a lightning-like fury.

And when Luke came home his disappointment echoed like thunder.

Anna threw her arms around Castiel’s shoulders, pulling him closer to her and Gabriel as they listened to four voices shouting over themselves. Becky begging her family to calm down and discuss the issue. Luke claiming there was no issue and how their father had no right barging into his room. Chuck telling him how he had every right since he owned the house and that smoking marijuana inside it was not allowed. And Michael, reminding them all that he had no part in this.

It ended with Luke screaming, “Well maybe I don’t want to live under your roof anymore!” He stormed out into the hall, glancing at the three of his siblings huddled, and out of the house. Luke didn’t come back, and when Castiel returned home from school his side of the room he and Michael shared was barren.

The next few years were hard whenever they ran into each other. Luke didn’t leave town, instead roaming between friends’ houses until he saved enough money to rent an apartment. If they were on their own Luke would stop them and chat, ask after their days. But if Chuck was in a five-mile radius Luke acted like he never met any of them.

At different points in their lives, his family’s relationship has healed somewhat. Becky’s efforts to reunite them worked to some degree. Their tempers cooled enough that they could be civil towards each other in group settings, although Castiel doubts Luke would ever call him ‘dad’ again.

He doesn’t want that with Claire. Since the move he feels like they’re relationship began deteriorating. However after her grounding Castiel figured it was on the fast track to going back to normal. She joked around with him like before, like all that former rockiness was smoothed out. Today’s findings prove he’s been ignorant to the true goings on of his household.

It’s also a sign that the two of them are restaging fights he’s seen happen before during his own childhood. Moving back to Lebanon was supposed to be a new beginning for all three of his children, but instead he’s mired in the past. His daughter acting like his brother, and himself acting like his father…

Castiel can’t let that happen. Except he sees no other way of addressing this issue without ruining the fragile peace he and Claire reached.

He’s startled from his thoughts by the doorbell, its ringing providing a necessary distraction.

Uncertain who it could be, Castiel pockets the baggie and goes to answer it.

It’s Dean and Jack. Castiel gapes at his son, eyes wide with shock. “What? Jack… what are you…?”

“You forgot to pick me up, dad.”

The intense feeling of failure triples and sits atop his shoulders crushing him. “I did?”

“We were worried ‘bout you,” Dean says, “I was closing up and you still hadn’t come. We tried calling you…”

“I - I didn’t hear…” Castiel clears his throat, stepping aside. “Why don’t you both come in?” They pass him, and he looks out the door one last time noticing the inky darkness of the sky overhead. So wrapped up in his worry about Claire Castiel let everything drop, include his other child.

Jack’s sitting on the couch in the living room, Dean leaning against it and frowning at a picture in his hand. His son points at it, smiling, “That’s my mom. Dad says she’s off doing important things to make everybody’s lives as happy as ours.”

Castiel’s heart should be a diamond by how hard it’s being squeezed. A reminder of Kelly only adds to his awfulness, how even at her busiest she never was too stressed to forget the important parts of life like their children.

He walks over to them, sitting next to Jack. Castiel draws his son into an awkward hug, making sure Jack couldn’t see the stricken expression on his face. “I’m so sorry I forgot to pick you up, Jack,” he says, “I didn’t mean to I just… I let time get away from me, is all. I promise not to let that happen again.”

“It’s okay, dad,” Jack tells him, pushing away, “Dean made sure I got home all right. It was so cool! He showed me the kitchen, and his office, he let me turn off the lights and-and-and Dean let me pick the cassette tape we listened to on the way over. His car’s really fun! He said it could go fast like a horse - but he went slow ‘cause I was with him.”

Dean shrugs, blushing softly under the praise. “Figured whatever kept you must’ve been important so I went ahead and…” He glanced up at Castiel from behind his lashes, “It’s okay, right, that I drove Jack home?”

Castiel attempts to smile past the severe frown lines restricting his face. “I’m glad you did, that you cared enough to.” They enter into one of their silent moods, then, where Castiel and Dean can’t tear their eyes away from each other. He thinks what might have happened if Dean hadn’t driven Jack home, or if Dean was any other man, and realizes how much worse the situation could have been. Thanking him seemed minimal, and he quickly raced to come up with something more appropriate. He’s struck with an idea as his stomach growls.

“Why don’t you stay for dinner?”

Dean startles. “I… Are you sure?”

The smile comes easier this time. “We’re always eating over at your place… and you’re already here. I know you keep wanting me to try _ your _ cooking but would you settle for some of mine. I can’t promise it’ll be any good.”

“I don’t know…”

“Please, Dean,” Jack turns to him, “This way we can spend even _ more _ time together!”

Dean bites his lip in thought, hunched in on himself. It’s clear the decision he makes is difficult, but for what reason Castiel can’t figure out. A nagging sense of doubt tells Castiel that Dean thinks dinner might overstep their acquaintanceship, and didn’t want to get dragged into dinner with a frazzled divorce man and his kid. Even if all evidence prior to now points to this feeling being irrational, the longer Dean thinks the larger it grows.

“Well,” he finally says, “if you put it that way… sure, I’d love to stay for dinner!”

Jack whispers a soft, “Yes!” Castiel’s heart beats easier.

“Okay,” Castiel stands, “I should get started on it then…”

“You mind if I use your phone?” Dean asks, “Gotta tell Sam he has to make his own chow tonight.”

“Sure we have one right over there,” he points to the landline hanging on the wall, “When you’re done you and Jack can watch television before I call you in.” Castiel leaves them and heads into the kitchen, scanning it in hopes of finding a quick meal to make.

His eyes alight when they pass a box of Kraft Mac’n’Cheese he left out after putting away groceries from yesterday. Pasta is easy, he thinks, I can make that.

He grabs the necessary pots and pans, filling the largest with water for his and Dean’s dinner. Setting it over an open flame, Castiel’s mind wanders. While the dinner he chose takes little thought, it means his mind can fill up with others in the meantime. Most of them deal with the lump in his back pocket.

Castiel taps at it, making sure the baggie is secure in his pocket. If it fell out in front of the others he wouldn’t know how to explain himself. Even now he wonders whether to keep it on him for the duration of the meal. The risk of discovery has sweat dripping down his back and clinging to his shirt. Mission changed, Castiel wonders where he could hide Claire’s marijuana during dinner. With the television on in the background and water still not boiled yet, Castiel opens a nearby cabinet.

He pushes around a few boxes, brow pinched as he imagines hiding it there. The baggie would be easily spotted if Dean opened the cabinet, which seems unlikely but in his addled state the only sensible thing the other man could do. So he grabs the open box of Pop-Tarts and stuffs it in there. No one would look in here, he rationalizes, since you only eat Pop-Tarts in the morning.

Logic foolproof, Castiel spends the rest of his time in the kitchen pushing thoughts of the Pop-Tarts box far away. It swings back around at different points. When he’s starting the other pans for Jack’s meal and the tomato sauce. Or after dumping the pasta water into the sink. While stirring the macaroni into the cheese sauce.

“Dinner’s ready!”

Jack scurries into the room, chased by Dean. They take their seats around the table, Castiel coaxing Dean closer when he chose the chair far away on the opposite side of Jack. “Where’ll Claire sit?” he asks.

“Claire isn’t eating with us tonight.” She told him the day before she’d be out late, and would eat dinner over at Alex’s. Castiel was glad she checked with him to see if it’s okay, friendly enough with Jody that he didn’t mind. Although the reminder of Claire’s absence, coupled with the incriminating Pop-Tart box, has him wondering if she’s there at all.

“Cas?” Dean brings him back to the present, “You gonna join us or…?”

“Right, right, my apologies.”

He squints at Castiel suspiciously. Avoiding the searching gaze, Castiel turns to his son and asks him about his day.

Launching Jack into telling a story served as a wonderful distraction tactic. Castiel fully focused on his son going over class lessons, recess where he played tag - and was stuck as ‘it’ when the bell rang - and how they spent the last hour of their day watching a video.

“Miss Moseley said that we’ll be watching more next week because of Thanksgiving,” Jack says, bits of macaroni spewing from his mouth, “I hope we watch the Magic School Bus next. I like Bill Nye but Frizzle is funnier, y’know.”

“I agree, Jack.”

His son slows his chewing, bobbing his gaze between him and Dean. “Dean,” he starts, “what are you doing for Thanksgiving?”

Dean’s fork scrapes against the plate. “Nothing special,” he says after a brief pause, “What are you doing?”

“This year we’re hosting for the entire family,” Castiel tells him, “Since last year we had to cancel last minute…” His family had more pressing matters to attend to that November. After Kelly won earlier that month, plans needed to be made. And those plans, although unknown at the time, involved beginning preparations for their separation. He shakes those memories away, focusing on dinner with Dean. “So we’re going to be busy.”

“Sounds like it,” Dean chuckles, “All those people… at least with me and Sam it’s a very simple affair.”

“Just the two of you? You’re not going anywhere to visit family?”

Dean pushes his food around on his plate, humming. “No, Sam’s the only family I got. We do fine by ourselves anyway…”

Castiel draws his brows together, curious about the fog that rolled over Dean’s face. He leans on the table, putting up a guarded front. Years of experience taught Castiel that even if he wants to know something, there are things he can’t say.

Jack still has much to learn. “That’s sad,” he says, startling the adults, “Two people on a holiday.” Then, his eyes light up, and he rounds on Castiel. “They should come to ours!”

“What?” Both men yelp, staring at Jack before turning to each other.

Castiel recovers first. “Jack, I’m not sure that would be a good idea…”

“Why not?”

“Well, um…” He rushes to come up with an answer, but none seem appropriate. Picking the most innocuous one, he shrugs, “It wouldn’t just be us that day, but your aunts, uncles, cousins, and your grandparents. It would be rude to not consult them about guests.” If he did ask them, he doubts they’d be receptive. Novak holidays are exclusive to only those related to the family, and his grandparents like keeping it that way. Partners weren’t even invited until engagement rings were present.

“And we’ve got a routine, Sam and I,” Dean adds, “I make dinner… he works the afternoon shift… y’know…” He trails off, giving Jack a kind half-smile. “Thanks, though, for the invite. S’nice to know you’d want to see more of me even when you don’t have to.”

Jack shows his disappointment but doesn’t say anymore about the holiday. They finish their dinner in silence. The mac’n’cheese disappears first, and Jack brings his plate to the sink. “Jack,” Castiel says when he returns to the dining room, “I think it’s time you get ready for bed.” He nods, moving towards the stairs. Castiel clears his throat, interrupting his son’s exit. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” Darting his gaze over towards Dean, he hopes Jack understands.

Nodding, Jack rushes over to Dean as he slurps up the last strand from his meal. “Thanks, Dean! For everything!” The hug surprised Dean, eyes wide as Jack’s arms twine around his neck.

Dean glances at Castiel, hand hovering briefly until they settle on Jack’s back. “No problem, kid. Anytime.”

Jack scurries out of the room and up the stairs, leaving the two adults alone. Castiel takes Dean’s and his plate and moves over to the sink and runs the faucet. Dean tries to help, but Castiel squashes that idea. “You’re our guest. And you’ve already gone above and beyond, today. Sit and relax.”

Halfway through scraping sauce off of his plate he hears the chair scrape back from the next room over. Dean’s footsteps are like boulders flying off a cliff to Castiel, tapping against the floor and echoing inside his head. He stops a foot away from him, lightly touching his arm.

“I can handle it Dean.”

“Why’d you forget to pick up Jack?”

Castiel’s hand stalls, faucet rushing over it and lapping at his shirt sleeve. “Things got out of hand here,” he says, focused on the strand of pasta that clings desperately to the soapy plate. “Distracted me, even though I shouldn’t have let it… I’m sorry that I -”

“You don’t got to apologize to me,” Dean says, “All I’m saying is… if something’s bothering you Cas, you can tell me.”

“I’ve got it all handled Dean, it’s fine -”

Dean spins him around, glaring at him. “Cut the crap. Nothing’s fine, I could tell all throughout dinner you had something on your mind.”

Castiel matches his glare, stubbornness rearing and readying its horns. “Yes, on _ my _ mind. Forgive me if I have things I want to keep to myself, I’m sure you’re well aware of what that’s like.”

Dean falls back, stricken. “Sorry,” he mutters, ducking his gaze, “I shouldn’t’ve… I’m not trying to pry Cas, honest. I… I just want to help.”

The plaintiveness in Dean’s voice soothes the combative part of his mind, lulling it back into a peaceful state. Once more the other man has withdrawn into himself, rubbing at his wrist. He looks like a scolded child, caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Castiel’s heart pierces itself from the innocent sight, disappointed that he caused such a joyous light to shrink.

Castiel scrubs a wet hand down his face, breathing deeply. “I know,” he says, “You… you’re a good man, Dean. Always willing to help I… I shouldn’t have snapped. But earlier I… something happened that’s put me on the edge.”

“Maybe you’ll feel better if you talk about it?”

He considers it. Thinks back briefly on other times he confided in Dean; tiny drops of water he spilled out aided the flower of Dean’s knowledge to grow and gift itself to Castiel. Every time that happened, Castiel left feeling lighter. With such a heavy weight resting on his shoulders he craves that freedom. “If I tell you,” Castiel starts, “can you promise me you won’t tell anyone. Not even Sam. _ Especially _ Sam.”

“Make it sound like I tell him everything,” Dean scoffs, “but… yeah, it stays between us. Unless it’s a dead body, because I’ve got to draw a line somewhere.”

“It’s not that but it _ is _ illegal.”

“Cas, you’re freaking me out. What is it?”

Castiel shuts the faucet off, tiptoeing over to the archway and listening closely. He doesn’t hear Jack moving around upstairs, having probably finished brushing his teeth and is now puttering around in his room until Castiel comes upstairs to wish him good night. Then, passing an anxious looking Dean, he retrieves the Pop-Tart box.

“Last time I checked Cas, those aren’t illegal.”

“It’s not the box, it’s what’s _ inside _ -”

“Yeah, and like I said -”

He unceremoniously dumps the baggie onto the counter, watching Dean’s eyes blow up cartoonishly. “Like _ I _ said,” he smirks, “it’s what’s _ inside _.”

Dean picks up the baggie, examining it from all angles. Opening it, he smells the marijuana and wrinkles his nose. “This is the real stuff all right,” he says, “Is it… _ yours _?”

“I’ve got two kids on my hands, Dean, of _ course _ it’s not mine!” Castiel pinches his brows together, sighing. “I found it in Claire’s room and have been _ freaking _ ever since. I mean _ drugs _ ? She’s a _ sophomore _!”

“High school students know how to get their hands on _ everything _,” Dean tells him, “There were times when I…” Blushing, he places the bag down, “you don’t want to hear this, do you?”

“No, what I _ need _ is an answer. I have no idea what to do,” Castiel admits, “All day I was… _ petrified _. Scared because what if Claire…” he bites his lip, uncertain about divulting family secrets. He’s been more than honest already. “If this continues,” he says, “what does that mean? Will she only get into more trouble, or is this only to get back at me for moving…”

He hears Dean hum, but can’t look at him. The nerves, that lain dormant throughout dinner, crash into him with a fury. A twitch works up in his hand and he tries hiding behind his back.

“You open to suggestions?” Dean asks.

Castiel nods. “They’d be much appreciated.”

“I think we should smoke this.”

His head whips up so fast his vision blurs. Dean holds the baggie, wriggling it around, wearing an easy smirk.

“Smoke it?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean, what-why…” Castiel sighs, “I was hoping for some real advice, not just mockery -”

“This is real advice, Cas,” Dean assures, “It’s not like you can do much with this stuff… and you could really use this to help you chill out.”

“I don’t need to chill,” Castiel growls, snatching the baggie from Dean, “I need - I need… I don’t know _ what _ I need, but it isn’t _ this _.”

“What?” Dean scoffs, “You never smoked before?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“Goody two-shoes like you, I’m sure you never -”

“It’s called being a responsible caregiver,” Castiel says, “I can’t pretend like I’m back in college.” It’s an admission of sorts. Castiel won’t go into details but he has experimented with drugs of this ilk during his years out-of-state. Beer, marijuana, mushrooms his roommate convinced him to try one night in junior year. He met Claire’s mother because of it, a mutual friend inviting them both to a smoke party. When he graduated, however, he walked away from that life. Castiel knew when to let things go.

Dean barks out a laugh. “So you _ have _ done this before? Then you know it’s not a big deal.”

Castiel sighs. “In the past, maybe, but times change. Besides when I did it I was _ older _. She shouldn’t be going near this stuff so young, who knows what might happen!”

“It’s not so bad,” Dean shrugs, pocketing his hands, “I mean… I dabbled with it in high school and I turned out fine. You can’t _ catch _ anything from smoking this shit… and since that looks pretty full I doubt she’s had the chance to use any of it.” He redoubles his efforts, standing firm. “Which is why we should get to it before she does. We smoke a little of it, put it back - it’ll scare her off. Let her know you know without having to confront her!”

“I’ll have to talk to her about this, Dean,” Castiel says, “I can’t let this go by without punishment… I only hope it doesn’t end like most of our talks have lately.” He eyes the baggie again, frowning. The little green, dust-like nubs mock him, reminding him of all the stress and failure that’s followed his move. How he’d love to watch it burn. “Were you serious?”

“About what?”

“Smoking this?”

“Hell yeah.”

Castiel rubs his temple. “I can’t believe I’m doing this…”

Dean snatches the baggie from him, grinning. “You won’t regret this, Cas. And if you do after a couple puffs I doubt you’ll care.” He attempts to walk away, but Castiel grabs his wrist.

“Not out in the open,” he tells him, “Jack could come down and catch us. Let’s use the bathroom down here. It’s a tight fit, but we can open a window. And neither of my children care to use it so the smell can linger for however long it wants.”

Nodding, Dean checks the baggie. “Seems like they included papers… you got anything to light?”

“I’ve got a box of matches in the drawer.”

“Bring ‘em, I’ll get the joint ready.” He heads over to the exit, pausing by the archway. “You can trust me,” he smirks, winking at him, “My name’s Dean, not _ Don. _”

“_ Dean.” _

“I’m going, I’m going…” The other man departs, Castiel waiting a beat before going for the matches.

Digging through the drawer, it dawns on him how crazy this is. With Jack upstairs and Claire out he’s going to the bathroom with the local bachelor-slash-diner owner to smoke his daughter’s weed. A laugh bubbles up inside, and he catches his manic stare in the reflection of his microwave. “This is nuts,” his hand stills over the box of matches, “I can’t be acting like this.”

The only other way he can think to act is in mimicking his father.

Castiel carries the matches over and finds Dean bent over the edge of the sink carefully rolling the paper. He glances up, tongue running over the edge. The sight makes him flush, the reality of what they’re about to engage in sinking deeper. Too white teeth flash at him, Dean holding the twisted end out to him. “Got a light?”

At least Dean’s here to distract him, Castiel thinks while rolling his eyes. He produces a match and strikes it, holding the burning tip out to the end and lighting it. Blowing it out, Castiel squeezes past Dean to open the window. “Exhale through here.”

“Gotcha.” Dean takes the first hit, the smoke sliding out past his lips smoothly, like the drug takes care to treat him properly.

When Castiel inhales, it feels like a crowded bus during rush hour, passengers elbowing each other to the front. He coughs, slamming on his chest to aid in breathing.

Dean laughs at him. “Been a while?”

He nods, tears pricking at the edges of his eyes. “I haven’t smoked _ anything _ since Claire was born. It’s difficult to get the hang of again.”

“I don’t have that problem,” Dean says, focused on the joint, “I always say I’m going to give up cigarettes but they have a nasty habit of ending up on me when I least expect it. But I’ve always been like that…” He chuckles, enjoying a joke Castiel must have missed. “Never know when to stop, even when it gets unhealthy.” Sucking down a long hit, Dean blows smoke rings through the window. “Might have a corroded lung but at least I can still do cool shit.”

Castiel grabs the joint from him, sitting on the toilet. The second drag is smoother than the first, and he only clears his throat after.

They spend their time like that, passing the joint between them. At some point Dean grew tired of standing and sat, folded over on the floor across from him. It was nice and peaceful, the drug changing hands quietly. It must not have been strong, Castiel thought, since it’s halfway gone and nothing’s happened.

But suddenly the painting hanging above Dean’s head becomes much funnier than it is. “Don’t even know what my mom was thinking,” Castiel says, “why does a bathroom need a theme? It’s a bathroom! No one’s going to care about a lighthouse, they’ll be too busy crapping their brains out.”

Dean huffs a snort through his nose, tapping on his knees. “Crazy, man.” He goes to smoke the joint, pausing halfway to stare at it, cross-eyed. “Y’know what might be funny,” he says, flushing, “if we shotgun this. Y’know what shotgunning is?”

“Shotgunning?”

“It’s when one person smokes, and they blow the smoke into the other person’s mouth -”

“There’s a name for it?” Castiel cuts him off, squinting, “We didn’t have a name for it, we just called it kissing.” Giggling, he kicks Dean’s leg. “I think you’re too high Dean.”

Dean sucks down a lungful, hissing out “Shut up,” with an averted gaze.

“I remember doing that kind of stuff with Claire’s mother,” Castiel sighs, “She always said smoking helped her get in the mood… and I didn’t believe her until she grabbed my face and… things led from one thing to the next.”

“So Kelly was a girl gone wild in college?”

“No, not Kelly. Amelia.”

“Amelia?”

“Yes, Amelia,” he skews his head to the side, “I feel like I’ve mentioned her, haven’t I? Or that I’ve been divorced twice.”

“You told me that,” Dean mentions, scratching at the tear in his jeans, “I didn’t know that Claire was from the first marriage, though.”

Castiel nods, smiling. “Amelia and I met back in college, and Claire resulted not too long after graduation. If my parents ask our engagement happened before Claire but… she pushed us along. In fact I don’t think we would have gotten married if not for her.”

“Really?”

“While Amelia was nice to be around we didn’t really click,” he tells Dean, “I wanted to settle down and be a family man and she… she didn’t. But she went through with it for awhile until one day she had enough.”

“And the divorce happened.”

“The divorce happened… and then I met Kelly -”

“You met her right after the divorce? Rebounded that fast?”

“_ During _. She was my lawyer.”

“_ Dude! _”

“We really bonded,” Castiel sighs, “and she took to Claire immediately. It was a nice change of pace to have someone else invested in her growth. She and I went on a few dates and… one thing led to another.”

Dean screws his face up. “Do you have super sperm or something like that?”

“My doctors say that they function above that of an average man’s.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have another girl locked down with a third Novak,” Dean scoffs bitterly, pouting, “given your track record.”

Castiel frowns, nerves unsettling once more. “I could have… but at this point in my life, I don’t feel ready to enter into another relationship. Moving is tough, and it would be a disservice to my children if I added a relationship on top of that. Claire already seems to dislike me, I’d hate to know what she thought if I moved on so quickly.” His heart beat fast against his chest, and he feels something clamp around his neck. “Although maybe I need someone else to hold my hand. On my own I’ve already done a horrible job, and I don’t see any way I can make it better. I feel lost and adrift and… and… some other third thing that’s similar to lost and adrift!” His breaths come out in sharp puffs, like daggers stabbing his chest with every exhale. Sweat drips down his forehead and his stomach twists itself into knots. A sob echoes in the small room, ringing in Castiel’s ears.

“Shit, shit,” he hears pass the drum of his heart, “Cas, calm down man. You’re working yourself up and… and, crap, the weed’s probably not helping.” Suddenly, a new weight adds itself to Castiel. Dean’s arms cradle him, his hands splayed across his back and head. He tucks Castiel’s face into his shoulder and shushes him. “Cas, it’s going to be okay, you’re making it into a bigger deal than it is.”

“No I’m not,” he whines, unconvinced, “Claire… she’s always been snarky but never this _ rebellious _. I’m not used to it. I keep trying to connect her with the girl I knew, the one who I used to make up stories about random strangers during errands and watch old episodes of Wonder Woman with. But the lines between that Claire and the one I see now are blurring. I don’t know what I’m doing. And because of my incompetence she’s closed herself off. I’ve ruined Claire’s life, and when Jack reaches her age I’m going to mess him up, too. All because I suck at being a parent. I’m not Kelly… it doesn’t come naturally to me like it did her. Moving here wasn’t the quick fix I thought it would be. I try and I try but all I seem to do is mess up. And even when I do ‘get it right’, it’s nothing like she would do. I’m a horrible father.”

“No, Cas, you are _ not _ a horrible father.” The steeliness of the declaration makes Castiel forget his panic, too caught off guard by the sudden shift of Dean’s tone. He pulls himself back enough to catch the darkness shrouding Dean’s eyes. “Trust me, I know what a bad dad looks like.”

He hiccups. “Dean -”

“A man who drinks so much during the day that he passes out before he could make you and your brother dinner - that’s a shitty father. Someone who tells you that you deserved to get your ass handed to you by some other kid because it’ll toughen you up? Shitty dad.” His voice cracks, tears threatening to fall. “A guy who lets his son be taken to a halfway house because he doesn’t care enough to pick him up from jail? Worst father of the year award right there.”

He’s stunned. Castiel blinks at Dean, regarding him under this new light; studying the shadows it casts. “That really happened to you?”

Dean nods, swallowing roughly. “I did my best to be good. Sam couldn’t rely on having just John be there to watch him. So I played friendly with the cops, making sure that if I did do something like hustle pool or shoplift, it went unnoticed. But then Sam needed lunch for a field trip, and we ran out of bread…” He recounts the terror he felt when the clerk caught him, and how embarrassing it was tripping over his own shoelaces. The disappointed frown of the police officer booking him and the sullen way he told Dean that John gave custody of him to the state.

“They shipped me off to this place run by a guy named Sonny. A real nice guy - the kind who’d cut the crusts off without you having to ask. It was me and a bunch of other boys… but he made time for us all. I fought it at first, I was so used to relying on myself you know, but it… it’s so exhausting. Being there reminded me how shitty my life was and - and that I was a kid. I never told Sam this… but part of me always wonders what’d happen if I stayed. I had a lot going for me - Sonny coached wrestling for the local high school and said I’d be a perfect fit for their team, to try out once fall rolled around. And I made friends! And… and there was Robin -”

“Robin?”

Dean blushes, shrinking away. “Just someone who lived next door,” he giggles, “taught me how to play the guitar and… about other things.” The sudden bashfulness surprises Castiel, but he recognizes the feelings playing across Dean’s face. Saw it on his frequently after the divorce.

“She must have been very special.”

“Yeah…” Dean looks very uncomfortable now, probably realizing how much information he spilled to Castiel.

Castiel, though, knows there’s a little more left of his story to tell. “So,” he prods, “what happened that made you leave? I doubt you woke up one day and thought ‘I gotta go back’.”

Dean chuckles. “Not exactly like that. One day I was hanging around, finished my chores and was looking for something to do. I came across a few of the older kids bullying a poor boy. Kid was new and I could tell that he wasn’t like most of us - taken in from unfit homes. No… he wasn’t ready to say goodbye.” A haunted look returns to Dean’s face, and Castiel wishes he had the power within him to exorcise it. “Anyway they were messing with him, calling him names and such… I stepped in and told the others to back off, and then walked the boy over to the kitchen so he could have an ice pop. Sitting on the counter, kicking his feet, I was reminded of Sam. It hit me… I couldn’t be there if he was stuck with John. Sonny’s was a nice vacation, a way to forget, but… being a normal kid wasn’t for me. Left that night. Didn’t even get to say goodbye.”

“That’s… that’s horrible,” Castiel whispers, lips trembling.

“Yeah, and that’s only a few samples of the collection of shit I’ve got on my dad,” Dean says, “So that’s why I know you’re not a bad dad, Cas. You _ care _ . You spent a whole day freaking out about finding weed in Claire’s room, not because it was illegal but because you thought it was your fault! All you want is to do right by your kids and I respect the _ fuck _ outta that. So you’ve stumbled along the way, so what, parenting is hard. Harder alone. It’s not going to be easy but you didn’t sign up for this because it was easy!”

Dean’s voice rises in volume, but Castiel sits too in awe to do anything but gape at him. He cannot believe someone like Dean exists; a man who has seen worse things Castiel could probably never imagine and yet still has faith in people being good. His mind races, his heart seizes, and his skin burns from their continued contact.

“...Thank you, Dean,” Castiel says, leaning back into the embrace with renewed energy, “Thank you.”

“I mean every word.”

“I know you do.”

They part, Dean standing from his crouch. He runs a nervous hand across his jaw, “Shit, I did not expect this to go so south…”

Castiel shrugs, “I didn’t expect to smoke weed and air my doubts.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “I’m such a _ bad influence _.”

“And I said yes, regardless.”

His gaze softens, and the soft smile from earlier graces his features again. “Could I tempt you again?” he asks, “Into maybe moving on to the snacking portion of the night?”

“Snacking?” Castiel scoffs, “We ate dinner, like, less than an hour ago!”

“What? After all these emotions I’m now running on empty. Besides, what’s a smoking session without some munchies?”

Sighing, Castiel pulls himself up from the toilet. “Fine, let’s go see what I have.”

They return to the kitchen, Dean pushing past to root around the fridge. Castiel watches him, leaning against the breakfast bar as the other man comments on his food. Finding nothing in the main area, Dean switches to the freezer and roots around until Castiel hears him cheer.

“Dessert, baby,” he says, showing off the pint of vanilla ice cream, “Is this okay?”

“Ice cream sounds good, actually,” Castiel says, moving over to pull two spoons out from the drawer, “Although can I convince you to turn it into a milkshake?”

“You wouldn’t want me operating heavy machinery while high.”

“I don’t think a blender qualifies as heavy machinery -”

“Just eat it before it melts, Cas, Christ!” Dean pops the lid off, using the spoon Castiel gave him to scrape at the top layer. Not much comes off, a bit too frozen, but Dean hums around the metal.

Castiel laughs at the sight, using his own spoon to grab some ice cream. They talk pointlessly over the frozen treat, making jokes and laughing so hard Castiel nearly falls to the floor.

During a quiet moment, where Dean holds onto the tub and digs for a large bite, Castiel takes stock of himself. All the worry from earlier has evaporated, not because of the weed but because of the red-tinged, green-eyed man scooping ice cream with him when he could have been home relaxing. Who opened up to him as a way to comfort and reassure Castiel that he wasn’t failing as a parent. A good man who has been nothing but kind since the moment he arrived in Lebanon.

“Dean,” Castiel starts, “I like you.”

The spoon flies from his grip, landing with a clatter on the floor. Dean’s eyes are wide and unfocused, jaw hanging limply. “W-what?” he asks, “what did you say?”

“That I like you,” he repeats, “I… I’ve never had a friend like you before, and I’m really glad we met.”

Dean recovers, smiling a bit too wide. “Really?”

Nodding, Castiel continues. “When I moved back here, I was expecting to return to the Lebanon of my youth. Readying myself for my family and… not much else. I wasn’t returning to friends, haven’t made many when I lived here. It was always hard for me to do so and… I don’t know, _ this _ has been surprisingly… _ easy. _ Too good to be true. I moved here for my children, not because I _ wanted _ to come back. You’ve given me something to _ like _ about this town.”

He finishes, and Dean’s expression has shifted back into something more natural. Dean taps at the counter, gaze darting between Castiel and his finger every few seconds. Giggling, he says, “You really think we’re friends?”

Taken aback, Castiel asks, “Are we not?”

“Yeah, yeah, I mean…” He scratches his head, “I was thinking we were friends… but you could have just thought of me as the guy who overshares and looks after your kids.”

Castiel chuckles. “You’re more than that. Although I do appreciate what you’ve done for Claire and Jack. I doubt I could have made it this far without you.”

Dean’s face has hovered between its usual shade and red, now shining along the latter range. “It’s easy when it’s not your own. If I did have children I doubt I’d be any good.”

“I find _ that _ hard to believe,” he says, “If you ever get the chance, I think you’d be a great dad.”

“...Thanks, Cas.”

He’s giddy. Whether still riding the high of the drug, suffering a manic state after the low from earlier, or leeching off the good energy Dean gives off, Castiel feels dizzy from it all. In this altered state, his confidence rises and his thought of consequence disappears. Like he’s a kid again. “Hey,” he says, leaning forward, “You remember when Jack asked about Thanksgiving?”

Dean squints at him. “...Yeah?”

“You should join us. You and Sam.”

Dean tenses, frowning. “Are you sure? Didn’t you say something about your family? I… _ we _wouldn’t want to crash -”

“You wouldn’t be crashing, you’d be my guests,” Castiel tells him, “And I can convince my family.” Hesitating, Dean bites his lip. Impatient he nudges the other man, “Come on, it’d probably be a nice change of pace for you two. At least consider the offer?”

He hums, shaking his head. Finally, Dean relents. “Okay, I’ll bring it up to Sam later and see what he thinks. I’m not making any promises, though, your family is pretty scary.”

“I know,” Castiel says, “that’s why I want you there.”

Dean laughs, locking gazes with Castiel. Castiel rests his spoon against his lips, returning the stare. The atmosphere shifts between them, thick and warm. Gooey would be a good word to describe it, he thinks, inside and out.

His friend’s eyes seem to grow larger. He thinks the drug hits back with a second wind before realizing it was only Dean inching closer to him. Castiel breaks eye contact briefly to glance at his lips, wondering why Dean licks them.

The spell breaks when they hear the front door open. Dean springs back like he was burned, smoothing out his shirt.

Castiel turns from him, walking out into the hallway and catching Claire at the foot of the stairs. She freezes, shoes in hand, caught in the act.

“Dad,” she says, “What are you doing up?”

He crosses his arms, summoning up the energy to shift into the strict parent persona. “I think the better question is where were you?”

She huffs, biding her time while she thinks. Castiel waits, hoping she answers quick before his mask breaks. His control already wants to slip away, limbs too heavy to hold in such an intimidating stance.

Dean snorts from behind him. “Oooo, someone’s _ busted _!” he sings, laughing at the end of his notes.

Castiel whacks his arm, “Dean!” But then he giggles, and the two work themselves up into a frenzy.

Claire shifts between the two, horrified. Horrified, she asks, “Are you two… _ high _?”

“We might be,” Castiel answers, “and if so, it’s because of you.”

She closes her eyes, muttering under breath. Seeing her realize the severity of her situation sobers Castiel up a bit, but he still clings to the soft edges caused by the marijuana. “Go up to your room, I’ll be there as soon as I lead Dean out. Say goodnight to him, Claire.”

“Night, Dean.”

“Night…”

Claire trudges up the stairs, dragging her bag behind her. Castiel turns to Dean, “I guess this is where our night ends.”

“Yeah…” He shuffles in place, biting his lip. “Back in the kitchen Cas, I…”

“Dean I meant it.”

“_ What? _”

“You and your brother are welcome to join my family for Thanksgiving,” Castiel says, “And if you say no at first, know that the offer stands until the day of. I think it’d be… _ great _.”

Dean stares at his feet, smirking. “Yeah, yeah of course…” Shaking his head, he claps Castiel on the shoulder. “I’ll let you know, Cas, honest. You… you’re a good man.”

He walks Dean to the door, exchanging goodbyes one last time. Watches him enter his car and drive off into the night, blending into the dark background. Waiting by the door, the faintest notion that if he looked back on this night there were a few pieces missing to the picture. And hoping, in time, Castiel will understand what they were.


	7. Pass the Cranberry Sauce

Thanksgiving arrives with no fanfare, no pomp and circumstance, and with no parade. At least not in Lebanon. It’s an average Thursday, not so different from any other, meaning Castiel wakes as always early. His alarm sets him off to a fine start, blaring loudly enough to shake him out of slumber. He wades through his dreams, only droplets of it clinging to him as he stumbles onto the other side. The more his eyes stay open the less he remembers, being left with only the color green and the faintest notion of falling.

“Ugh,” he grunts, “coffee.” Castiel slams on the snooze button, shifting off his bed. Shuffling towards the coffeemaker, he checks on both his children. Jack stays sleeping, as does Claire, the latter easing his pulse. Every morning since the last she snuck in late he would make sure his daughter began each morning where she ended it that night - in her room. 

Claire hasn’t broken their streak yet. He shuts her door softly, careful not to disturb her, and continues his trek down. Castiel readies the coffee pot, humming along with the machine as it grinds. Its aroma curls around his nose, filling him with a beautiful peacefulness.

That shatters when he hears the front door open.

Castiel tenses, fingers squeezing the counter while he listens. Between each too-loud heartbeat that drums in his ears, he listens as the intruders whisper in muffled tones. He readies himself for a confrontation, one hand tiptoeing over to the kitchen drawer. However, before he can draw a knife, one of the intruders slams into something and lets loose a curse in a familiar voice.

His body turns to putty, each nerve firing back onto itself as if trying to rewind to a point before the terror. Castiel drags a hand across his face, sighing. “Dad? Mom? What are you doing here?”

Becky and Chuck enter, former looking sheepish while the latter sullen and tired. “Castiel,” she says, “what are you doing up so early?”

“I lost any ability to sleep in after my second child,” he answers cooly, leaning on the counter, “do you mind answering the same question?”

She glances at Chuck, biting her lip. “We thought it’d be nice to surprise you?” Becky tells him, smile shaky, “Since this was your first Thanksgiving back home… and with Kelly gone, you might need some help -”

“I had everything under control,” he pouts, arms folded across his chest, “It’s not like I haven’t cooked before.” Castiel learned very early on Kelly shouldn’t be allowed near the stove. Microwaves were fine but any food placed in a pot or pan, under her watch, would turn to ash on the tongue. He learned how to handle dinner after one date where she attempted a home-cooked meal.

“But Thanksgiving is different,” Becky continues, moving closer, “so many moving parts, like the turkey! You have to get up early to start working on that!”

“I was going to start after breakfast.”

“That’s too late! You need to let it marinate before you cook it, and -”

“It’s been marinating all night, mom,” Castiel says, “I think that’s long enough.” After dinner he sent the kids away so he didn’t have to worry about them while working. Using a recipe he found in a cookbook from the library, Castiel readied the marinade and painted his turkey. And then, with stuffing inside, he placed it in the oven for a small amount of time.

The main course for tonight’s meal now rests in his fridge, resting in more marinade and blanketed in tin foil, waiting for its second and last cooking.

“Seriously,” he sighs, “it’s not like this is my first time  _ ever _ with the holiday…” Castiel rolls his eyes, and in the action spotting a large bag hidden behind his father’s leg. “What do you have there?”

Becky tracks his gaze, stiffening. She waves him off, “It’s nothing Castiel, really -”

“Mom what is it?”

“It’s a turkey,” Chuck shrugs, placing it on the counter, “we didn’t know if you’d have one.” Then he drops another bag next to it. “We also picked up a few more things. Just in case.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Unbelievable…”

His coffeemaker goes off at that time and draws his attention. Choosing to drown his annoyance with coffee, he pudders around his kitchen preparing his drink. Hoping to regain some of the serenity he found he stares at the brown liquid, readying a sip, until a figure inches their way into his line of sight.

“Stop,” he growls, startling Becky, “it’s  _ fine _ .”

“I only wanted to see how it was,” she huffs, “Honestly Castiel you’re being very touchy with your turkey.”

She’s saved from his fury by the sound of his children making their way towards them. Jack appears first, rubbing at his eyes. When his fist drops he notices the room’s occupants. His face lights up, “Nanny! Pop!”

“Oh, Jack!” Becky welcomes him into a hug, squeezing him tight. Claire trudges in behind him, hair a matted mess. His mother rushes her to try and smooth it out. “And Claire! My you look more beautiful each time we see you!”

Seeing his children gives him a wonderful idea, one that would keep his mother far from the kitchen until needed. “It has been awhile since they’ve seen you. Surprising since we live so…  _ close _ . Claire, Jack, why don’t you, Nanny and Pop go into the dining room and chat while I fix us all up some breakfast?”

Claire is the only one not willing to cooperate. He meets her glare with one of his own, outclassing her. She relents, and follows the others into the other room.

Now alone Castiel takes his first sip of the morning. It’s the only moment of peace he will have all day.

As the morning progresses, so do his stress levels. Becky makes three more attempts to overstep the fine line Castiel drew to begin Thanksgiving meal preparations. Each time he sent her back to the dining room, hoping more family will find their way to his house soon.

Anna arrives first, with husband and son in tow. He hears Jack and Sam dashing past and into the backyard, most likely to play in the scattered leaves he hasn’t gotten around to cleaning up. Maintaining a yard is hard work, and he puts in no effort to do so.

His mother and sister walk in, laughing. “You’ll never believe this Castiel,” she starts, “I swear, we hadn’t talked at  _ all _ until now.”

“What?”

Anna holds up a bag similar to the one Chuck carried in, sheepish. “We thought you might need this,” she says, “so yesterday…”

He squints at her, frowning. “You too? Seriously…”

“We didn’t mean to, honestly,” she starts, “At first Balthazar and I only went in to pick up some canned yams -”

“You know how ol’ Mikey gets when he doesn’t get any,” Balthazar says, entering. He kisses Becky on the cheek, “Lovely as always to see you, Becky.”

“Likewise, Balthazar.”

“And while we were there, Balthazar suggested we stop by to see if there were any turkeys left -”

“Actually,” he interrupts her, “I said ‘wouldn’t it be fun to look at all the people scrounging around, trying to find a turkey, the day before’?” Balthazar shrugs at Castiel, “You Americans and your strange fascination with colonization.”

Castiel scoffs. “I wouldn’t start. Let he who didn’t originate from an imperialist nation cast the first stone.”

“Anyway,” Anna continues, bringing the focus back to her, “while there I started telling Balthazar about the one time you tried to help cook Thanksgiving dinner. You distracted mom so much the turkey burnt and… well…”

“Anna,” Castiel sighs, pinching his brows, “I was  _ six _ . That happened so many years ago!”

“The next thing I know I had a turkey in my cart!” she cries, “The energy in the room was so frantic everything kind of blurred…”

“Castiel,” Becky chides, rubbing his sister’s shoulders, “it was very thoughtful what your sister did. There’s no reason to take on that tone.”

He bites back a groan, swallowing it down to join the eggs he ate earlier. “I swear,” he mutters, “the next person to come in here with a turkey eats nothing but the giblets.”

Jo, thankfully, came bearing only a pecan pie from Gabriel’s bakery. “I was so thankful that you took on hosting this year,” she tells him, “Gave me more time to devote to the Church’s food drive. Sure there were a lot of cans in our car but we dropped them off with Father Metatron on our way here.”

“How is he?” Becky asks, “He looked troubled during mass last weekend.” She raises a brow at Castiel, “You’d know if you were there. Could see it on his face.”

“He looked much better,” she says, leaning forward to whisper, “It shouldn’t spread farther than here but dear Father Metatron was dealing with an unfortunate problem.  _ Kidney stones _ .”

“No!”

“Confided in me when I dropped off the cans. Was bothering him up until Tuesday; and when they passed he spent the whole day laid up in bed praying to the Lord; thanking him for ending his misery and asking to make his recovery swift.” She sips at the coffee Castiel poured for her. “If the Lord has anything to do with him he’ll be up to the task on Sunday, otherwise they’ll have to call on the diocese for a temp.”

“I hope not,” Anna sighs, “Last time we got one of those I got sick for a month. I’m not sure he washed his hands before handing out the Body of Christ.”

Castiel leaves them to their conversation, instead following the noise coming from his living room.

His father sits wedged between Michael and Gabriel, all cheering on the Bears as they come up against the Detroit Lions. Balthazar watches with a detached interest. “It’s not really football,” he said one Thanksgiving, years ago, “Watch any Manchester United game. Now  _ that’ll _ show you a good time.”

He readies himself to return to the kitchen when the front door opens. Luke steps in, shrugging off his leather jacket.

“Hey,” he says to the assembled crowd, “who left my front door open?”

Chuck doesn’t look at him to answer. “Figured it’d be easier.”

“But anyone could get in!”

“Calm down, Cassie,” Gabriel says, “it’s Thanksgiving and we’re all here. You can go ahead and lock it.”

Castiel turns to Michael. “Are your kids not joining us?”

He spares him a brief glance. “No, Jeremiah’s spending this Thanksgiving with his girlfriend and Sarah volunteered to work a soup kitchen since the break is so short.”

“Oh, okay.” Castiel, after mentioning Michael’s children, thinks of his own. Jack he knew was outside with Sam, but Claire was nowhere to be seen. “Have any of you seen Claire?”

“She went up a while ago,” Gabriel tells him, “Now pipe down and hurry up with dinner!”

Losing his family to the television, even Luke who clapped him on the shoulder before perching on the armrest next to Gabriel, Castiel left them. Debating whether or not to check in with Claire, he ends up forgoing the decision because of the noises coming from his kitchen. He hurries back in to find the turkey on the counter, his sister, sister-in-law, and mother puttering all around it.

“What do you think you’re doing?”  
“It’s about time we started on today’s dinner don’t you think?” Becky asks, a can of yams in hand, “Really, Castiel, your kitchen is so disorganized. Where’s the can opener?”

“In the drawer next to you - but, I mean why did you start  _ without _ me?”

“We figured you got out of our hair to let us cook?” Jo says, peeling potatoes, “Wouldn’t you rather be watching the game with everyone else? If you’re in here you’ll be making all the other men look  _ bad _ .” The three women share a laugh, Castiel not finding any reason to join them.

Anna moves to take the turkey but Castiel beats her to it, holding it out of reach. “I don’t mind,” he starts, “besides, I’m not a huge fan of football.”

“Neither is Balthazar but that doesn’t stop him.”

“Please,” he whispers to his sister, “support me on this.” Castiel dips into his bag of underhanded tricks, softening his gaze to weaken her defense.

She caves in seconds. “Yeah,” she says, “we could use the extra help. Why don’t you put that in and get started on the cranberry sauce.”

“Thank you.”

Castiel heads around to the oven and opens it with his foot. Ignoring the worried stares from both his mother and Jo, he joins them in preparing the Thanksgiving feast.

They only run into a few hiccups maneuvering around each other. Not watching where he was going, Castiel knocked into Anna and caused her to drop a few ears of corn to the floor. “It’s okay,” Becky said, “your father and I brought some extra… Castiel are you sure you don’t want to leave this to us?”

“I’ll be more conscious,” he tells her, helping Anna clean up the floor.

Other than that Castiel had to deal with Jo’s particular instructions when it came to mashing potatoes and his mother’s unnatural draw to the oven. Every time he opened it to baste he felt her hovering behind him. “You know which areas to baste?” she asked, “It’s three places - the breast, the inner thigh and the -”

“Outer thigh, I know,” he says, “don’t you have anything else you can be doing?”

“Not while the asparagus is in the microwave.”

Becky became his personal shadow, at least giving him space when he removed the stuffing and started carving.

He dug out the wishbone when he felt a hand on his elbow. Anna stills his efforts, taking the knife from him. “We’re almost done here, why don’t you go tell everyone while we set up the table.”

“You don’t want any help with that?”

“Not yours,” she says, “but send Jack and Sam our way. They can handle it.”

“Okay.” He washes his hands, drying them on his sleep pants. Castiel goes to the first group, stepping through the sliding door into the backyard. Among the scattered leaves, the old tree and the battered shed that came with the house, he sees his son chasing around Anna’s. “Boys!” he calls to them, “Dinner’ll be ready soon! Why don’t you come on in and help set the table?”

Sam stops without warning, Jack slamming into him. He winces, the sole spectator to the two kids tumbling into the ground. At least a soft pile cushioned their blow. But, aided by the wonders of youth, both of them shake off their fumble and scurry his way. They push past him and into the house, Jack hugging him around the waist before rushing towards the downstairs bathroom alongside Sam.

Castiel follows at a slower pace, taking the stairs up to his daughter’s room. He knocks once, then twice, waiting for a response. When none comes, he enters. “Claire?”

She glances up from her bed, headphones secured to her ears. Placing her magazine down and pausing her music on a nearby Discman, she huffs. “What’s up?”

“Dinner soon. Come down and join your family.”

“Do I have to?” she asks, “I’m just going to be eating with the babies. I could make my plate and eat up here?”

“No. Down. Ten minutes.”

“Ugh fine!” she says, shifting off the bed, “But if you’re not getting changed then I’m not either!”

Castiel peeks at his outfit, still unchanged from when he woke up. Sighing, he scrubs a hand down his face. “I need to change, and so do you. Wear something nice - like the skirt your grandmother bought you last month.”

“Seriously? It’s so ugly.”

“ _ Claire _ !” he hisses.

“What?” she asks, “I wear plaid five out of the seven days of the week, why do I have to today, too.”

“Because she’s family and she loves you,” he tells her, “So we do things we don’t really care for like wearing skirts and letting them take over your house.”

His daughter smirks at him. “You’re gonna wear a skirt?”

“I will pick you up from school in one if you keep this up.”

“As if.”

“Try me,” he smirks, “I hear they’re extra comfy if you go commando. Like they do in  _ Scotland _ .” Claire rolls her eyes but stays silent. Castiel nods, satisfied to see a point tick itself onto his scorecard. It brings a smile to his face all throughout his outfit change. He switches his t-shirt and sleep pants for a soft, green sweater and worn jeans.

On his way down the stairs, about to yell into the nearby living room, he hears the doorbell ring. He pauses on the bottom step, curious. Staring at the door, he lets the noise die off and repeat itself.

Chuck calls from the other room. “Isn’t anyone going to see who it is?”

Startled, Castiel stumbles off the last stair. “I will,” he says, “Everyone else… head towards the dining room. Dinner will be ready soon.” There’s slight grumbling, and the sound of football cuts off.

Castiel smooths out his sweater, wondering who’s on the other side. He opens the door with a polite smile that grows once he realizes who waits there.

Dean mirrors his expression, wearing a blue plaid shirt and carrying a tinfoil-covered platter. “Hey,” he says, “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Happy Thanksgiving…” Castiel swings the door wide, leaning on the jamb, “What are you doing here?”

His face falls, and Dean finds his warped reflection more interesting. “You, uh… you invited me here? I mean, Jack did first and then you kinda… but you were sort of out of it so -”

“Dean,” Castiel chuckles, “I’m kidding.”

The other man relaxes immediately. “Christ, Cas. Seriously?”

“Well I also wanted to make sure,” he tells him, “you never actually followed up to let me know.” And there were many opportunities. In the days leading up to Thanksgiving Dean and Castiel ran into each other multiple times, whether at the diner or in the town. Neither brought up the holiday, Castiel not willing to until Dean did. His silence, however, convinced him the other man decided to keep with his own tradition.

“It’s not weird that I’m here, right?” Dean asks, “Because if you want me to I can go…” Dean shuffles in place, already trailing backwards.

Castiel reaches out to stop him. “I said the invitation stands until the day of. You’re lucky to have made it under the deadline.”

Dean bites his lip. “Thanks, Cas.”  
“No problem.” Castiel looks behind him, searching. “No Sam?”

“He couldn’t get out of the shift,” he explains, “and because even Jody wanted to spend the day with Alex he’s working later than usual. I… I was really flip-flopping on whether or not to come. That’s why I didn’t answer you. If it was me and Sam… at least I wouldn’t be barging in alone.”

Recognizing the nervousness marring Dean’s features, Castiel squeezes on the wrist still trapped in his grip. “Whether you and Sam or you alone we’re happy to have you here.”

“...Thanks, Cas. Again.”

“Now come on,” he lets Dean enter, drawing back his hand, “I’m sure dinner’s ready  _ now _ . What did you bring by the way?”

Dean peels the tinfoil off part way, revealing a delicious mac-and-cheese recipe. “It was a rush job, still fresh from the oven. I was inspired by our last meal together.”

“Looks delicious. Kraft?”

“No,” he shoves at Castiel, “my own recipe. After this you won’t go back to that stuff.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, but takes the dish from his hands. “We’ll see.” He leads Dean into the lion’s den, only remembering when they reach the kitchen that he never mentioned the extra guest to his family.

It’ll be an interesting Thanksgiving.

* * *

The scrapes of cutlery against china fill the silence overtaking his dining room. It’s unlike a Novak event to be so silent, but Castiel believes the others are still processing the additional guest. They all do well to avoid staring too long at him, wedged between Luke and Michael and across from Castiel. Dean seems to mimic the others, eyes downcast and focused on the food. 

He doesn’t blame him, his reception cold too kind a word to describe it.

Becky nearly dropped the platter of turkey when she spots them, recovering with enough time to slide it onto the breakfast bar. “Castiel,” she said, grin plastered across her face like a peeling sticker, “and… a friend.”

“Hey mom,” he started, placing Dean’s dish down alongside the turkey, “you know Dean Winchester, right?”

“Becky,” Dean greeted, hand outstretched, “pleasure to see you again.”

“Likewise.” The shake was perfunctory, not lasting too long. She snuck a quick peek behind him, “And… is your brother here?”

Dean sighed, "No. He's on duty."

Surprisingly, Becky allowed her face to droop. Castile's mother was known to keep her neighborly mask on no matter the surprise. So watching it crumble set off a few alarms. But in the next instant it returned, shiny as new.

"Well at least that means no one here's getting arrested," she laughed, "So, what brings you here? Shouldn't you be celebrating today with your family?"

Dean tried to answer, but Castiel did for him. “That’s why he’s here. I invited him because otherwise he’d be waiting for his brother to arrive all alone in his house.”

“Really?”

“And we have more than enough food,” Castiel continued, “especially with Michael’s kids not joining us.”

Becky pursed her lips, the vein on her forehead clueing Castiel into how frustrated she felt. He did feel bad about not letting them know ahead of time, but it wouldn’t outweigh how awful he’d feel turning Dean away. Luckily Jack chose that moment to walk in, eyes lighting up when they landed on the newest guest.

“Dean!” Jack bounced over, “I can’t believe you came!” Dean welcomed Jack’s entrance, offering his son a high-five.

“Of course,” he said, “Any time spent with the Novak’s is a good time.” Then he ruffled Jack’s hair, Castiel’s heart warming with his son’s giggles.

“Castiel,” Becky whispered to him, “a word?”

“Of course.” Castiel tapped Dean on the arm, “Why don’t you go inside and let everyone know you’re here. I’ll be right behind you.”

“Come on!” Jack grabbed Dean’s hand, forcing the other man to bend, “I can show you who’s who.”

“Thanks, buddy, don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He waited for the door to the dining room to shut firmly before addressing his mother. “Yes?”

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked, “Inviting a stranger -”

“He’s not a stranger! Everyone here knows him.”

“If he’s not a Novak than he’s a stranger.” Her brow softened, and she placed a hand on his shoulder, “It was sweet what you were trying to do, but it’s very rude to have him come in like this.”

Castiel let go of his bubbling annoyance, it floating away like balloons. “I know. I’m really sorry about that. Jack and I invited him but he didn’t give us a straight answer, so I figured he didn’t want to come.”

“And you can’t tell him to go home?”

“He’s already here, mom. It’d be ruder to do that.”

Becky could argue further but Castiel whisked by her to grab an extra setting for the table. By the time he finished she gave up. “We can make this work,” she said, “one extra person… although it’d be much easier if he brought his brother.”

“Why’s that?”

“Sam’s the cuter one.”

Castiel gaped, watching his mother head into the dining room with the platter of turkey once more. He stilled, unsure whether to follow or defend his friend’s attractiveness to the empty kitchen. The urge was surprising, Castiel clueless where it sprang from. However, thinking about it, he agreed with it. Dean looks much better than Sam, he thought, no question.

“Cassie,” Anna stuck her head in, “Hurry up! We want to start eating today!”

And they dug in without prompting, Jo’s prayer barely over as Gabriel reached for the gravy boat to smother his mashed potatoes. Luke scooped a healthy portion of Dean’s mac-and-cheese, sticking his tongue out at Michael when he asked for some. Castiel was glad the children already assembled their plates, sitting together on the breakfast bar in the other room. Claire promised she would lead the prayer so the adults could eat sooner, but he doubted that happened.

“So, Dean,” Chuck breaks the silence, sipping at his wine, “how’s business going for you?”

Dean glances up, face stuffed with turkey. He swallows quickly to answer. “It’s good. Been pretty slow this week ‘cause of the holiday but at least I got my regulars, like Cas here.”

“Oh,” Michael says, “you’re already a regular Castiel?”

Castiel shrugs, cutting into his turkey piece. “It’s really turned around in the time I’ve been gone. Dean serves great food, and Claire and Jack go there after school a lot.”

Dean chuckles, “I look after Jack so Claire and her friends can have some alone time.”

Becky turns to Castiel. “Am I hearing this right? You make this poor man babysit Jack?”

He blushes, chewing on his food instead of answering. Dean speaks up, “I don’t mind. Jack’s a good kid that he doesn’t really need much. Sometimes I help him with his homework.”

“That’s really sweet,” Anna says, “I hope my brother’s paying you for your time.”

“I pay him for the food my kids eat,” Castiel tells them, “and on the occasion, for the food I ordered as well. Recently I’ve been taking Jack there because Claire needed… to… focus on some school work. It’s a surprisingly easy place to work in, I must say.”

Jo clears her throat, drawing attention towards her, “Well, Castiel, it’s so wonderful you’ve worked the diner into your schedule.” Her tone unsettles Castiel, and he pauses his eating until she beats the last branch on the bush. “Do you spend weekends there?”

“...No, not usually.”

“So no Sunday brunches?”

He sees the trap as he springs it. “Jo -”

“I’m just saying,” she cuts into her turkey, the knife screeching across the plate, “that if you can find the time to go to a restaurant, then you can easily attend a Sunday service.”

Castiel sighs, pushing around his food. It’s an old argument he wished wouldn’t be brought up, but Jo has harassed him about it every time they saw each other. Old habits are hard to quit, and there’s no one in his house reminding him to attend Mass. Especially not the constant voicemails that he answers around noon.

“Come this Sunday, Castiel,” Becky asks him, laying her hand over his, “Father Metatron and Jo put on this wonderful pageant with the Sunday School kids. What is it this year?”

“We’re doing a take on the parable of the Prodigal Son,” Jo tells him, “but instead of people the kids will be playing turkeys. Jack could’ve had a good part to play if he was  _ enrolled _ -”

Dean snorts, hiding it behind a cough. Jo squints at him, grimacing. “Yes, Dean?”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, “I was just picturing Jack in some kind of a giant turkey costume and it was so ridiculous…” reading the room, he withdraws his mirth, “it was stupid, don’t mind me.”

Not willing to leave it alone, she taps on her chin. “Y’know, I’m trying to remember if I’ve seen you at a service. Are you a member of our congregation or…?”

Spotlight on him now, Dean squirms in his seat. “Well,” he starts, “I’m not really that religious…”

“You’re not?”

“Yeah,” he stabs at his mac-and-cheese, “we never really went to mass back home and… I don’t know, never really felt welcomed by the Church.”

Castiel frowns at the admission, studying his friend. Dean’s posture clearly translates how much he would not want to talk about this. His sister-in-law, passionate about the Church, would not leave a soul who strayed from God’s light.

“Oh well not all priests are made equal, Dean,” she says, “I’m sure if you sit down with Father Metatron you’ll see how wonderful our parish is. If you want I can set some time up between you and him if -”

“Jo,” Castiel interrupts, “you were saying about how Metatron’s recovering from a kidney stone? What will happen to the pageant if he can’t lead mass?”

It’s an obvious distraction to everyone but her. Jo takes the bait, switching into a panicked worry as she realizes her hard work was in jeopardy. “You’re right,” she mutters, “he doesn’t have a big part but if he can’t show up then we can’t put it on at all… I’ll have to call him tomorrow and either prepare for the worst or speed up his recovery.”

After derailing Jo’s missionary instincts, conversation shifts into the more mundane. Balthazar talks about his most recent trip out of state, flying south to Florida to pitch a possible campaign to a cruise ship. They’re clients he’s worked with in the past, however indecision on their end meant he’d be back in a week to sell them on a tweaked version of the original presentation.

“Florida in December?” Anna laughs, “How I wish to be going with you.”

“Well…” Balthazar fights back a smile, “I was going to wait until Christmas but… I’m working out a deal with them as we speak. The first week of January you, me, and Sam are going on a trip to the Bermudas.” The table gasps as Anna slams the table in joy. She drags him into a kiss, thanking him all the while.

“Thank you for spoiling the surprise,” she says, “Now I can start preparing  _ immediately _ .”

“Oh a cruise,” Becky sighs, “so lovely. So  _ romantic _ . When was the last time we left the state Chuck? Ten years? Fifteen?”

“About that,” Chuck shrugs, “We haven’t gotten away since the last convention I was invited to.”

“Convention?” Dean asks, “For what?”

Castiel taps at Dean’s plate with his fork, stealing his attention. “My father happens to be a famous novelist.”

“Really?”

“Have you heard of the Supernatural series by Carver Edlund?”

Dean’s eyes widen, darting over to Chuck before finding Castiel’s again. “Holy…  _ the _ Carver Edlund?”

Chuck chuckles, “You a fan?”  
“Like, a _huge_ one. I was hooked halfway through the series and couldn’t wait for when the next book would get to the library. Me and Sam would read them all the time. He’d do it in one sitting while it took me a few days to get through it, though.” Dean leans forward, lips twitching. “Did you always plan to have God be the main villain or was that something that came to you while writing?”

Gabriel groans, knocking into Castiel’s shoulder. “Seriously? Are we going to spend this holiday listening to another one of dad’s lectures?” Castiel shushes him, nodding along as Chuck begins telling them how he came to the epic conclusion of his series.

They’ve heard it many times already, their father’s test audience before each convention. It’s been awhile, so Castiel couldn’t repeat the answers word for word. However he mouths along to his father’s speech the best he can, smirking the entire time.

When Chuck winds down Gabriel shifts the conversation elsewhere, not wanting to sit through any more book talk.

The night passed with no other defining moments save when they serve dessert. Dean, a healthy slice of pie on his plate, moans around a forkful. He chews unaware of the stares garnered by his sudden noise. Castiel, along with his mother, sister, and sister-in-law, watch Dean devour the slice without touching their own desserts.

Finished, Dean opens his eyes and meets his audience. He blushes, pushing his plate away. “Sorry,” he says, “I really like pie.”

“Thanks for the compliments,” Gabriel smirks, “I’ll be sure to appropriately label the pie when I go in tomorrow.”

Dean rolls his eyes but doesn’t hold himself back from taking another slice, the last in the tin.

With no more room in their stomachs everyone begins taking their leave. Anna and Balthazar first, the latter carrying an exhausted Sam back to the car. Jack, in a similar state, gets led up and put to bed by Castiel; not before bidding everyone good night, especially Dean. “Thanks for coming,” he yawned, “really ‘preciate it.”

The other man grins with watery eyes, patting Jack on the back. “I’m thankful you invited me.”

Tucking Jack in, Castiel comes down to find his parents, Michael, and Jo gathering their things. “This was a wonderful Thanksgiving,” Becky says, crushing him in a hug, “made so by having you back here with us.”

“Of course,” he chuckles, trying to pry himself free, “next time, though, it’s at someone else’s house.”

“Not mine,” Luke joins them, shrugging on his leather jacket, “there’s no space for all of you in my apartment.”

“Why don’t we have it in the diner?” Michael suggests, jokingly, “That way none of us have to cook.” They all laugh save Castiel, offering reserved chuckles since the biting tone made the jab less amusing. He leads them out, wishing them a safe trip home.

Lingering in the kitchen, Castiel finds Dean, Claire, and Gabriel pecking over the remains of his mac-and-cheese dish like vultures.

“Gotta hand it to you, Winchester,” Gabriel says, “this is some  _ killer _ mac. You sure you didn’t use Kraft?”

“God no,” he scoffs, “there are three kinds of cheeses in this and none of them are that processed shit. Besides, you won’t find breadcrumbs in  _ Kraft _ .”

“Why isn’t this on the menu?” Claire asks him, “Seriously, you’d make a  _ fortune _ if you made this at Colette’s.”

Dean twists his fork in the cheese, grin faltering. “It’s not something I make that often… only really save it for special occasions like holidays and stuff. Besides, if this was made every day it’d be less special.”

“I guess…”

Castiel shakes his head, a burst of fondness flowering in his chest. He moves forward, snatching Claire’s fork and stabbing a few of the elbow noodles for himself. “I must say,” he speaks over his daughter’s protests, “I wasn’t expecting my first meal from you to be  _ this _ .”

Dean chuckles, biting his lip. “I didn’t disappoint, did I?”

“On the contrary, Dean, you  _ undersold _ yourself. Where did you learn to cook like this?”

Shrugging, he answers. “I picked it up. Kinda had to, otherwise no one’d be eating. You’re lucky that I have a natural talent. The first ever mac’n’cheese I made we didn’t have any cheese, so I had to substitute marshmallow fluff -”

“Gross!” Gabriel winces.

Dean nods. “I could barely stomach the stuff but Sammy, man he wolfed it down. Kid was born without taste buds, I swear. Ate whatever kind of garbage meal I made.”

Claire pushes away from the breakfast bar. “And on that note I am  _ out of here _ .” She says good night to the adults, moving as fast as her skirt allows her.

“I should probably be moseying on myself,” Dean admits, slowly drifting over to the hallway.

Gabriel snorts. “ _ Mosey _ . What are you, a cowboy?”

“I wish.”

“ _ Loser _ .”

Castiel walks with Dean towards the front door, shoulders brushing all the while. When they reach their destination the men linger, neither willing to part yet. “I had fun,” Dean says, “Your family is…”

“Intense?”

“That’s one word for it.” Chuckling, Dean rubs his hands on his pant legs. “Really, though, you didn’t have to do this -”

“Dean…”

“No, no, let me finish. You didn’t have to do this but… I’m glad you did. With Sam we kind of make turkey sandwiches, put on a movie and watch until one, or both of us, passes out. Sitting down at a table, eating a  _ real _ turkey… I kind of forgot how fun that could be. So, thanks for giving me that today.”

Castiel’s heart skips over itself at Dean’s confession, face in pain from the strength of his smile. “I’m glad I could offer you this,” Castiel says, the strings of an idea braiding together. “You know, if you ever want to eat with someone other than your brother you’re always welcome at my house.”

“For real, Cas?”

“Yes. Although the invitation extends to Sam as well,” he adds, “I don’t want it to look like I’m stealing you from him.”

“No, no that-that’s not what it looks like,” Dean chuckles, knocking into the door with his back. Rubbing his neck, Dean jerks his thumb towards the door. “I really should be going.”

“I understand. Please give my regards to Sam.” They say goodbye, Castiel waiting a beat before closing the door.

With one last guest in his house, Castiel goes to help him make a speedy exit. However with Gabriel unwrapping an ice cream sandwich he doubts his brother will be leaving anytime soon.

“I’ve gotta say, Cassie,” Gabriel starts, licking the bar, “you’re really shaking up the foundations.”

Castiel sighs, taking a seat at the bar across from him. “It was one holiday, and Dean didn’t cause too much of a stir.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Then, please, enlighten me.”

“I meant of the town,” Gabriel explains, “Dean Winchester? Total hermit. I’ve never seen the man out at night except for when he’s driving home from the diner. I’ve watched women ask him out, employees invite him to hang, and even his own brother beg for a few drinks at our local watering hole. He turns them all down. Figured he might be one of those  _ special  _ types. But I guess I’m wrong. Nice to see the man’s got some layers.” He chomps down onto the bar, keening when the coldness rushes to his brain.

Castiel ignores his antics, instead focusing on what he said. He had some idea that Dean and his relationship was different from others in the town. And the glances they received when crossing paths in town made more sense than his theories of Dean’s fan club watching them like an Animal Planet documentarian.

It makes him wonder what Dean sees in him that makes him different than all the others.


	8. Carry On

Castiel sees the flashing lights in his rearview mirror, the police car tailing him at a calm pace. Worried, he pulls over to the side of the road and waits for the officer to do the same. He gathers his things - making sure his registration is in his glove box - readying himself for the tap at his window. When it comes he still startles.

Although his nerves are for nothing, as standing on the other side in his uniform and shades is Sam Winchester. Castiel sighs easily, rolling down the window to talk with him. “Good morning, Sam.”

Sam dips his hat in greeting. “Morning, Cas.”

“What seems to be the issue?”

“I was on my way to work when I noticed you make a turn, and you didn’t use a signal.”

Castiel frowns. “What? No I… I’m sure I did.”

“Oh you did,” Sam tells him, leaning on his car now, “I kind of figured out the problem when we hit that stop sign. Your left tail light’s out.”

“It is?” Castiel cranes his neck back to glare at the rear of his car. “How the hell… it was working just fine the other day!”

“These things tend to happen,” Sam shrugs, “it’s not a big deal -”

“Enough for you to pull me over for.”

“To warn you,” he chuckles, “if it were anyone else, even Jody, you’d probably be getting a ticket. But between you and me those tickets were always a bit heavy-handed…” Then, to himself, Sam grumbles, “Especially when the money could be better spent elsewhere.”

Castiel hears him, though, and nods. “Like field trips?”

Sam tenses, pushing off of Castiel’s car. He leans down, squinting. “How do you know about that?”

“Uh - Dean. Dean told me…” It was a throwaway story, Castiel complaining to Dean about a trip Jack’s class was going on to a Christmas tree farm and how he needed to sign a slip and send Jack with around 25 dollars to help pay for the trip, lunch, and the tree the class would go back with.

Dean scoffed, saying how boring a trip like that would be. “Reminds me of one Sam’s school offered. They wanted to take his class to a prairie for the day and have a picnic.”

“Seriously?”

“I think they wanted the kids out for the day, seemed like everyone had a trip planned. Anyway it’s not like Sam could have went, even though he wanted to. Dad got pulled over a few days before for a busted tail light, and when he got that ticket he also got taken in for public intoxication. All the extra cash for the month went to bailing him out _ and _ paying the ticket. Sam sulked the entire weekend until I made it up to him with an impromptu picnic in our backyard.”

It was a bittersweet memory, one of many that Dean felt comfortable sharing with Castiel. Since comforting him that one night tales of his past were easier to bring to the surface, Dean not as withholding now. There were still moments where after telling Castiel about his childhood Dean would hold his breath and glanced up at him through his lashes.

Castiel eased his mind each time, thanking Dean for sharing and relating a similar-enough story from his own childhood to take the focus off of him.

The smile that crept across his face recalling that time crumbles when he notices the hard stare Sam pins him with. “Is,” he swallows past a nervous lump, “is everything all right?”

Sam blinks, broken from his scrutiny. Frowning he asks, “Did Dean tell you any more… _ things _?”

“I mean, he’s told me about your father and a bit about your past,” Castiel says, brows knitting together in confusion, “I’m sure there are things he still hasn’t told me but it’s not like I was holding him at gunpoint when he mentioned these things.” Bringing up guns makes Castiel dart his gaze quickly over to the firearm strapped to Sam’s side. “I… I apologize for bringing it up?”

“What?” As if realizing his position, he steps back. “Sorry, sorry it’s… you caught me off guard is all.” He shrugs, waving his hand between them. “I’m not used to anyone but Dean knowing stuff like this.”

“Oh, well,” Castiel says, “I… if you’d prefer it I can stop Dean the next time he goes to tell one?”

“No, no, it’s his past, too. Although I’m surprised _ he’s _ talking about it.”

Castiel attempts a half-smile. “If it’s any better I never pry, he usually brings it up whenever we’re discussing Jack or Claire. I think he does it to make me feel better. The first time he did so I was freaking out over being a bad father.”

“Yeah, that tracks with Dean…” Sam rubs his chin, considering Castiel. “You two’ve gotten really close, haven’t you?”

“Well I don’t invite just _ anybody _ to Thanksgiving, Sam.”

He winces, chuckling awkwardly. “Yeah… yeah, that’s true. Sorry I couldn’t come, by the way, but -”

“You had a shift, Dean’s told me.” Relaxing in his seat, Castiel finds the grin on his face settling much easier. “We’re good friends, Sam, truly.”

In the past month they’ve really grown leaps and bounds in their friendship. Some days, instead of working from home, Castiel would bring his work with him to Colette’s. That way he’d already be there when his kids arrived.

Dean would seat him at the far end of the counter and leave him be, coming over usually whenever he ran into a problem. “I see you get this little frown,” Dean told him once, pointing at Castiel’s mouth, “and I figure you might need a distraction.” He helped Castiel not get too stressed out over the numbers, sometimes asking him to explain what he’s doing. Going over it again allowed him to retrace his steps in the problem and untangled the mess he made the first time. Also, if Castiel needed to look something up, Dean would watch his work and let Castiel use his office computer.

Knowing how personal that can be, Castiel was honored by the trust Dean had in him.

Outside of Colette’s Dean also swung by to join them for dinner about three different times. Usually whenever Sam worked a late shift, Dean explained. While the younger Winchester was missed, the four of them enjoyed their time together. Even Claire seemed to shed her angsty shell and show off a little of the girl he remembered from Pontiac. He cherished those meals together, sometimes walking past his bedroom mirror finding himself still smiling though Dean left hours ago.

They also did more than eat, although food was a very important part of their relationship. If they ran into each other at the grocery store, Dean and Castiel would shop together. Walking down ailses with their half-filled carts, chatting about their days and comparing prices on different tomato sauces. One time they decided to use different check-out lines to see who could leave the fastest, Dean cheating by helping his cashier; a kind woman by the name of Mildred. He talked her into letting him ring up the prices while she bagged, and when Castiel was paying for his groceries Dean waited for him at the exit.

“Next time no dirty tricks,” Castiel scowled while they journeyed towards their parked cars.

Dean nudged him good naturedly, dimpled grin easing him out of his faux bad mood. “Not my fault she crumbled under some good ol’ Winchester charm. It’s too powerful to be resisted.”

“Does it get tiring?” he asked, “having to carry that massive head on your shoulders?” Dean barked out a laugh and rode away with his cart, not even bothering to say goodbye when Castiel reached his parked car. Not that it mattered, since Castiel saw him later at Colette’s.

There’s also been many phone calls between the two, such an act that transports Castiel back in time. When he picks up the phone and hears Dean on the other end he feels like a teenager again. Like Claire with one of her friends. It’s not restricted to their houses. Once Castiel called the diner to check up on his kids, greeted by Charlie before being transferred to Dean. By the time they finished talking Alex drove Jack and Claire home already, neither realizing they left.

And the last moment that stuck out was one night leading up to Christmas. Claire and Jack were in the other room watching television while he and Dean cleaned up from dinner. Castiel filled the silence with running water and complaining about an upcoming party.

His aunt, Amara, hosted a Christmas party annually. He went when he was younger, delighting in running around her large house with his siblings and cousins. Foisting seeker duties on his cousin Raphael, who always volunteered for the role. They never asked her why she wanted it, happy that instead of counting they could hide in the many spots within the house. Castiel loved squeezing into the linen closet and draping a blanket over himself. “That way I could take a nap,” he said, Dean’s eyes crinkling in amusement.

However those childish games were in the past. Now there were expectations from him, one being that he needed to bring something to share. “A dessert,” he explained to Dean, “Me? Why she’s not letting Gabriel be in charge of _ all _ the desserts I can’t understand.”

“Maybe to get back at you for being gone for so long?”

“Probably.” Castiel tapped his finger on the sink’s edge. “She’s so picky, too. I don’t want to bring something she’ll spend the night criticizing.”

“Your aunt’s named Amara right?” Dean asked, “That wouldn’t happen to be the same Amara who owns that Interior Decorating business, would she?”

“The very same? Did she do your home?”

“No, I’m not trying to start my goth phase in my thirties.”

Castiel chuckled. “Yes her tastes are very… _ austere _.” He can’t remember her owning a piece of clothing that wasn’t a shade of black, nor adding anything to her house that would change the layout from monochrome to technicolor.

“Maybe you should do something small?”

“Pardon?”

Dean half-smiled. “Your dessert problem? Instead of trying to do something to impress just bake whatever’s easiest. Like cookies.”

“Cookies?” Castiel considered the option, “I can’t say I remember making cookies…”

“Cookies are easy, Cas. Even I can make cookies.”

“Well then why don’t you show me?”

When Claire entered the kitchen for a bedtime snack she found Castiel and Dean covered in flour, laughing beside the stove. The breakfast bar was a mess, with ingredients lying over each other as if caught in a terrible battle. “What happened?”

Castiel blushed, avoiding her stare. “We were… making cookies.”

She rolled her eyes. “Really? Did you forget they go on a tray and not your bodies?”

Dean scoffed, kicking the oven. “They’ve got about five minutes here and another five to cool. Unless you don’t want any?”

“You kidding? I’m craving something sweet.”

The first attempt had too much salt in it, an accident because Dean distracted Castiel’s measurement. When he made them again for the party, sans Dean, they turned out fine. Even Amara seemed to like them. Especially after he mentioned how his friend helped with the recipe.

“Dean, hm?” she asked, smirking, “I’ll have to thank him next time I see him… hopefully under some mistletoe.” He walked away after that, hiding his trembling wince at her suggestion.

Sam clears his throat, drawing Castiel from the montage of memories. “It’s great to see you two getting close,” he starts, smile shaky like the other man isn’t sure whether to keep it on or not. “So… _ just _ friends?”

Confused, Castiel’s brows furrow. “Of course. What else could we be? I think _ best _ friends is a bit childish, don’t you think?”

The other man stutters out a laugh, rubbing his neck. “Right, yeah. That makes sense…” He drums his fingers on the roof of Castiel’s car. “I should probably get going… and you should really take this to Bobby’s.”

“Of course.”

Sam backs away, pausing in the middle of the street. He looks like he’s weighing something in his mind, lips pursed as if waiting to say more. Meeting Castiel’s stare through the open window, he says, “Cas… don’t hurt him all right.”

“What?”

“He kinda gets these ideas in his head about the future and... “ Sam shakes his head, grimacing. “Sorry, I… I’ll see you around.”

Castiel calls for him, poking his head through the window and watching Sam retreat to his car. The police vehicle drives off quickly, leaving Castiel in the dust. He pulls himself inside, going over Sam’s final words to him. Trying to place them within a context that he can understand. “Hopes up…?” he mutters to himself, “Is Dean… expecting _ more _ from me?”

Message unreceived given how little Castiel understands the relationship between the Winchester brothers, he decides to place those thoughts in a neat little box in the corner of his mind. To be opened at a later date.

There are more pressing matters to attend to. Like his broken tail light. He checks that no other car drives by and gets back on the road. Destination changed, Castiel begins the journey towards Singer’s Auto Shop.

He only hopes he can get there with right turns.

* * *

Bobby chuckles, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. “Shouldn’t be a problem,” he says, “It’s a five minute job. But I can also check your other lights, along with your brakes and change your oil, too. Since you’re here and all. Usually these are all done together.”

“Might as well,” Castiel shrugged, “Better to do it all now then when it all decides to break down at once. How much longer?”

“Depends. Could be fifteen minutes, or forty-five.”

“I can wait -”

“However,” he says, “I do have to warn you, I’ve got a heavy load on my plate today. I wouldn’t be able to get to your car until after I go through the others first. What I’m working on could take around three hours.”

Castiel bites his lip, debating. “And if I chose to only get my tail light fixed?”

“I could do it now and you’re out of here with no problem.”

It’s a tough choice to make, but Castiel ends up choosing the former option. “My brakes have been giving me problems lately,” he tells Bobby, handing over his keys, “I’m sure I can find something to do in all that time.”

“You could go down to Crowley’s shop and browse,” Bobby suggests, “he’s got this sale going on all week. Buying one ugly lamp gets you half-off on another.”

Frowning, Castiel skews his head to the side. “What a strange offer.”

“Rowena overstocked them on the things, didn’t even get a good bargain for them” he tells Castiel, “I swear I’ve been hearing him blabber on about it constantly. He’s hung up on it, and not even walking his girl Juliet calms him down. Usually where I fail she succeeds. It makes spending time together something awful…” Bobby smirks, fixing his cap. “Although I’m sure you know about that. Dean’s about as ornery as Fergus.”

“I guess. Sometimes Dean complains about the vendors who extort more money out of him than they should. Especially after I pointed it out to him.” In the time Dean owned Colette’s he never realized the mark-up certain prices went through. The man who sold him his meat, Alistair, practically doubled the price on his shipments.

“He always told me it was because of shipping they were so expensive,” Dean huffed, “But he’s really an asshole.”

Castiel found the word fit the meat vendor perfectly. In his conversations with the other man he felt his nose wrinkling from the horrible taste in his mouth. Alistair hadn’t need be in the room to conjure the feeling he was arguing with a walking pile of garbage. Why Dean had a contract with the man he could never understand.

Dean blushed, embarrassed. “He must’ve pulled the wool over my eyes,” he said, “I was new, and he seemed… _ experienced _.”

“You’re lucky I was here, then. Otherwise you might’ve spent forty years with the… asshole.”

“Yep. You practically saved me from hell.” Castiel lets the memory fade, returning to the present where Bobby places his rag back in his pocket.

He shakes his head, clucking his tongue. “Although I can’t blame him, Rowena’s always been able to get under his skin. One of the perks I guess from running a business with your ex-wife.”

“I wouldn’t know. Neither of my exes cared to join me on any business ventures.”

“Ha!” Bobby barks, clapping him on the shoulder, “You’re a dry one, boy. I like that. Come back around one for your car.” The older man spins on his heel, venturing deeper into his shop and upending the chair the other mechanic - the one with the mullet - was resting on. “Break’s not for another hour, idjit. Back to work!”

Castiel leaves the shop after, hitting the streets. He shivers as the frosty January air cuts across his body. Closing his trench coat, Castiel wishes he brought his parka instead. “I didn’t think I’d be out this long,” he mutters in defense of his favorite jacket, stroking the tan material.

With too much time on his hands, Castiel considers what he should do. Crowley’s sale flitters across his mind as a possibility, until he realizes how horrible it would be to purchase lamps. He hadn’t the need. And if Crowley happened to convince him, which he’s a master at given the antique and unnecessary artwork hanging in his office, Castiel would look stupid carrying two lamps through the town.

While parsing through the different locations he can visit to whittle away the hours, his feet lead him to a familiar destination that, when staring at the large red sign, made Castiel feel stupid for not thinking of it sooner.

It’s emptier than usual, but Castiel figures he beat the lunch rush. Dean glances up from the counter in the back and smiles at him, wiping out a glass. “Cas,” he says, “you’re here early?”

“Needed somewhere to wait,” Castiel shrugs, sitting across from him on a stool, “Had to take my car into the shop.”

“Really?” Dean frowns, “What for?”

“Maintenance. Nothing too serious.” He frowns, then, remembering how he found out. “Your brother pulled me over to tell me.”

Dean winces. “He didn’t give you a ticket, did he?”

“No, he let me off with a warning. A very _ strange _ warning…”

Leaning on the counter, Dean waves the rag in front of Castiel’s face. “You okay there? You look like your head’s somewhere else.”

“Sorry,” Castiel says, biting his lip. “Dean… are you happy with our friendship?”

Thrown, Dean slips off the counter and bangs his chin on the surface. He bites back a curse and slams his hands too hard in frustration. Castiel, as well as the rest of the diner, watches worriedly.

Recovering, Dean rubs at the affected spot and grumbles. “What?” he starts, “What are you talking about?”

“Sam,” he says, eyes wide, “he made a weird comment… about how I should be careful around you?”

“What?”

“Not to hurt you,” he clarifies, “That you get your hopes up…”

Dean squints, seeing the intent behind Sam’s words better than he did. “Really?” he growls, “I can’t believe he…” Flushed, his fist twitches between them. “I’m sorry about my brother,” he mutters, “sometimes he thinks he means well when actually he’s being an overbearing pain in my ass.”

Dredging up past conversations, Castiel asks him, “This… you _ have _ had other friends before me, right?”

“Yes!” he yelps, in a high-pitched, unconvincing way. “Yes,” Dean repeats, much softer, gaze darting downwards, “I’ve had friends before… I have friends _ now _ I… this is much different, though.”

Castiel hums. “How so?”

Somehow choking on the air, Dean offers a stilted explanation of what he means. Throughout his rambling, his skin dips into a shade similar to a nearby ketchup bottle. Castiel attempts to stifle his giggling, but can’t help letting one slip as Dean whacks himself with the rag still in his hand. “Stop, Dean, stop,” he breathes, “I know what you mean.”

“...You do?”

“Yes. While I might have said to your brother that it’s childish there’s no better way to describe it,” Castiel says, “we’re _ best friends _.”

Dean relaxes somewhat, wringing his rag between his hands. “That’s one way to describe it.”

“I’ve never had a best friend before,” he continues, excited, “my mom once said that my siblings were my best friends but that made no sense to me. They’re my _ siblings _. How can they be both my friends and my family?”

“The terms aren’t mutually exclusive Cas,” Dean says, “you can be friends with your family… and sometimes your friends _ are _ your family. It doesn’t just end in blood, y’know.”

“That… I’ve never thought of it like that.”

He shrugs. “You were lucky, then.” Recoiling from the dip in the conversation, Dean picks up the glass he was drying and wiggles it in front of Castiel. “Milkshake?”

Castiel raises a brow. “This early?”

“It’s never too early for a milkshake.” He concedes to Dean’s inane logic, waiting as he mixes his drink together. “By the way,” he adds, “brothers can be best friends. Sam’s mine.”

His heart clenches, and the foundations of his good mood buckle. “Oh?”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t have more than one though, Cas,” Dean teases, “_ that’s _ immature.”

They laugh, tension broken between them. Castiel waits until his milkshake slides towards him before carrying on with their conversation. “I was told that once, when I was young.

“Told what?”

“Someone I thought was my best friend told me I couldn’t be best friends because he already had one,” Castiel shrugs, stirring his drink, “Then they went off to play a solo versus game of basketball while I sat on the asphalt with some jacks.”

“Christ,” Dean says, “warn a guy before you pull at his heartstrings.”

“It is sad, looking back on it, isn’t it? I almost completely forgot about it until you cruelly ripped the stitches free and reopened the wound.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “If I found the kid who did that and beat him up would it make you feel better?”

“I don’t think you can,” Castiel grimaces, “He’s dead now.”

“No foolin’?”

“Overseas. Shot in combat.” Nodding, Dean grabs another glass and proceeds to make another milkshake. “What are you doing?” Castiel asks, “I’m not even done with my first one.”

“This one’s for me,” Dean tells him, glaring playfully. “Otherwise how else am I gonna get rid of the foot taste?” Castiel snorts into his drink, some of it spilling off to the side and onto his fingers.

He sighs, dragging his tongue across to lap up as much of the strawberry mixture he can. Smacking his lips together, he looks back at Dean and finds him staring with a fog over his eyes. “Dean?” he asks, “Dean?”

Startled, his hand slips and he hits the on button. Unfortunately in his other hand is the cover, so the blender spins and spits out its contents. Dean takes the brunt of the explosion, the ice cream and milk coating his apron and face. Some of it rains over the counter, Castiel leaning back with his drink to protect it. Spluttering, Dean blindly searches for the off-switch. He finds it when the blender emptied out most of its contents.

Silence. No one says anything as Dean wipes away the mess on his face, blinking. Not even Charlie moves, the waitress frozen in delightful terror; her mouth wide open in a smile.

Taking in the room, Dean’s head droops so his chin hits his chest. Cheeks still smothered in white, Castiel guesses that they are aflame. The attention makes him wither like a flower in the desert.

Castiel springs into action. “Charlie,” he calls her out of her shock, “can you get a mop?”

“I-I can,” she says, “but Garth -”

“I’ll send Garth out.” He moves behind the counter, prying the cover from Dean’s hand and leading him into the back. Luckily Garth overheard from the opening and holds the door for them. He meets Benny’s concerned stare and waves him off, mouthing how he’ll handle it. The other man nods, returning to work.

When they’re safely in Dean’s snug office, he addresses his friend. “Take off your clothes.”

Dean whips his head up to gape at Castiel, a dollop of the melted ice cream flying and hitting Castiel’s nose. “_ What _?”

“Your clothes, Dean,” he repeats, “you don’t want to be in this mess all day, do you?”

He comes back to his senses, realizing the state he’s in. “Right.” Dean unties his apron, the stained garment dropping to the floor. It lands with a _ squelch _, ties splayed wildly.

Castiel sighs, bending down to pick it up. “Dean, you shouldn’t drop this _ anywhere _ -” He pauses, Dean’s shedding his shirts drawing his focus. The ruined plaid slips off easily, while the t-shirt underneath requires more effort. Bundling the two up, Dean uses them to wipe of the remainder of the attempted milkshake from his face.

Face hidden, Castiel allows himself the chance to study his friend. Dean’s freckles extended past his face, smattering his shoulders and dotting the expanse of his chest like stars in a city night. He pouts, noticing the cut of Dean’s abdomen and comparing it to his own. While he never developed a gut like his brother Gabriel, Castiel knows he could do more to improve his body. Dean stokes the fires of jealousy in him with the smooth paleness of his stomach.

Dean pulls the makeshift towel away, clearing his throat. “Cas?”

“Yes, Dean?”

“You’re getting milkshake on your shirt…”

Castiel glances at his outfit, smeared like Dean was. In his concentration he hadn’t realized he hugged the apron to his chest, dirty side forward. Blushing, he discards the offending item on a nearby hook. “Oops.”

Dean chuckles. “We’re a couple of dumbasses, aren’t we?”

“Less dumb, less ass,” Castiel tells him, “more clumsy and fools.”

“So,” Dean drawls, squeezing his shirts, “what _ made _ you so _ clumsy _?” His brows dance, smirk delightfully overturning his earlier sullen expression.

Castiel looks back to Dean’s chest, rushing to come up with an explanation. Uncaring to explain his inadequacies to his friend once more, he decides to choose a different sort of truth. “I was trying to figure out what your tattoo meant.”

Following Castiel’s gaze, Dean runs a finger across the black ink. His glee falters, replaced with a more conservative calm. “Figures,” he mutters, “it’s not really that _common_...”

“I’ve seen a pentagram before,” Castiel helpfully supplies, “my brother Luke is fond of them. Although I’ve never seen one with flames around it.”

Dean's gaze softens somewhat at Castiel's blasé response, a thin line of suspicion still tracing his iris while walking past Castiel and over to his desk. He drops his shirts onto a clean portion, digging through a nearby pile as he talks. “Yeah, it’s more than your average sigil. And it doesn’t mean that I belong to some satan-worshipping cult.”

“Good. Otherwise we wouldn’t be friends anymore.”

He pauses, catching Castiel’s eyes over his shoulder. “You got something against Satanists, Cas?”

“My mother forbids I even speak to them,” he chuckles, “I’m already on thin ice now that I know you have a tattoo.”

“But it’s a significant tattoo, Cas,” Dean continues, finding a worn brown henley and tugging it out. “I got it a few years back, with Sam.”

“Some kind of family crest?”

“No,” he pulls the henley over his head, “a promise. The tattoo’s of an ‘anti-possession’ symbol. Supposed to keep bad demons and juju out. When we got it we were… going through some things. These were to help with a fresh start, a reminder to never look back.” His hand hovers lovingly over his heart, and he smiles with melancholy soaked in each tooth. Shaking himself from his introspection, he huffs at Castiel. “You brought a change of clothes, too, or…?”

Remembering his own predicament, Castiel begins shucking his clothes. “Luckily for both of us I have an undershirt.” Castiel removes his ruined shirt and tie, mimicking the ball Dean made of his own clothes. Then he throws on the suit jacket and trench coat, smoothing it out.

Dean pouts. “Lucky us…”

“So,” Castiel starts, “do you feel ready to face the masses yet?”

At the mention of his diner Dean shudders. “I think I deserve more of a break, don’t you think?” he asks.

“It’s your diner.”

“Okay,” Dean sits at his desk, gesturing to the other chair in the room, “you gonna sit, or…”

“You want me to join you?”

“Don’t leave me alone, Cas,” Dean begs, a mocking curl to his lips, “who knows what’ll happen if you go?”

Castiel rolls his eyes, smiling exasperatedly. “I doubt anything _ too _ serious… but just in case I should stay by your side.” He joins his friend, both giggling at their act.

Laughing away their nerves, they begin their conversation anew as if the incident with the blender hadn’t happened. Dean asks about Castiel’s holidays, and he recounts them. Waking up early on Christmas morning with cookie crumbs still stuck to his face, shuffling after Jack as he bounced over to the tree. He was very happy with the toys he received, spending the entire day playing with some action figures Castiel picked up in the last days leading up to Christmas.

Claire enjoyed her presents as well, until she came upon the one from Becky. Castiel felt bad for laughing, but truly his mother had a vision of Claire that only she saw. The pink tulle and lace neck would never find their way into Claire’s rotation. “Hey,” he nudged her with his foot, “it could be worse. She could’ve bought you some bunny pajamas.”

Dean wheezes, hiding his face in his discarded shirts as he rides through his fit. “I wish I could’ve seen it,” he sighs, wiping at his eye, “next time I’m over you _ have _ to make her wear it.”

“I have enough trouble getting her to do things as it is, you’re asking me for the _ impossible _.” Castiel waves off his attempts at convincing him and instead asks after his day.

“Me and Sam exchanged gifts, watched ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’ and downed eggnog until the first one chucked it all up.”

“Isn’t that a little extreme?”

“It’s tradition,” Dean grins, “First one to puke does the dishes until the new year.”

Castiel shakes his head. “Did you win?”

“Did I win? Cas you’re in the presence of the reigning champ.”

“I am?” Castiel mock gasps, “If I had known I would have brought my camera with me!”

The time passes like that with meaningless chatter between them, talking about family traditions and jumping at certain points into new topics. He and Dean weaved through television shows, construction in the town’s park, bad family vacations and embarrassing high school faux paus.

Castiel is in the middle of regaling Dean with how someone spiked the punch at his first ever homecoming dance and he blacked out halfway in when his watch buzzes against his wrist. Checking it, Castiel stamps down a groan.

“What is it?” Dean asks.

“I need to go pick up my car from Bobby.” Castiel stands, and Dean with him. “Thank you for keeping me company while I waited, Dean.”

Dean scratches at his neck. “You kidding? I’d never turn down the chance to hang with you…” He bites his lip, considering something. “Hey, you wouldn’t mind if I, like, drove you to Bobby’s would you?”

Caught off guard, Castiel frowns. “Are you sure? I wouldn’t be pulling you away from work?”

“Cas,” Dean scoffs, “this day’s a wash. I don’t think I could look at the blender let alone get behind the counter. So… want the ride?”

He debates the offer. While he might feel bad making Dean chauffeur him to the auto repair shop, Castiel thinks about how cold it was and how much worse it would be given he lost a few layers. “Okay,” he says, “I do.”

“Cool. You go wait by Baby and I’ll let the crew know the shift changes.”

Castiel does, keeping his dirty shirt and tie under his arm as he exits. Benny is there, alone, working the grill. They nod at each other in passing. Exiting into the main dining room, Castiel’s eyes widen at the bustling crowd. While huddled away with Dean more patrons must have entered without them knowing.

Garth has taken Dean’s place, mixing milkshakes with ease. He waves at Castiel in greeting. Returning the gesture, Castiel makes his way towards the exit with one last word to Charlie. Then he steps back into the cold, shivering.

Castiel hurries over to Dean’s car, waiting for his friend by the passenger door. A minute after Castiel left Dean comes out the door, swinging his keys. Over his henley he wears a thick denim jacket with fleece on the collar. Noticing Castiel’s chattering teeth, he quickly opens his car for both of them. “Welcome to the best thing you’ll ever ride in,” Dean says, “Keep your seat belts buckled and prepare to have your mind… _ blown _.”

“Is this a car or a ride at Disney World?”

“It’s more than a car, Cas,” Dean sighs, revving the engine, “it’s… _ perfection _.” He hits a button on the dash, turning on the audio system as he drives onto the road. A loud guitar riff blares across the speakers, starting the song off, and then it transitions to a man singing.

Castiel winces at the sound, Dean unbothered by it. “Could you maybe turn it down a little?”

“Sorry,” Dean says, adjusting the knob. “Better?”

It’s still loud, but not too much so. “Yes. Do you always listen to your music at that volume?”

“Of course,” he says, “with these tunes you need to.”

Doubt crosses Castiel’s mind, but he chooses not to argue with Dean. Instead he files it away with the other strange tidbits from his friend that make no sense. Like his belief that vegetables aren’t required in a healthy diet. He was lucky Jack had left the room for when he said that. Castiel badgered him like Dean was his own child to eat the spinach on his plate. If Dean pushed it away, Jack would too, and he would never get his son to finish his vegetables. Both of them sucked it up and finished everything on their plates.

“Oh Cas,” Dean starts, “you gotta let me crank it up for this song.” He turns the knob without Castiel’s approval, singing along with the song. “Once I rose above the noise and confusion…”

With rapt fascination Castiel watches Dean sing over the man in the stereo. Their voices blend together, Dean staying on pitch. However at certain points his twang leaks through, and Castiel can differentiate Dean from the singer. He prefers the former’s voice.

The song dies down when they reach a stop light, Dean beaming with the power of a strobe light. And when Castiel checks his reflection in the rearview mirror, he finds a similar smile on his own face - Dean’s joy infectious.

Dean apologizes once more. “I had to. It’s Kansas’s _ best song _.”

“The state?”

Scoffing, Dean lowers the music once more. “No, the band.”

Castiel tilts his head to the side. “Someone named their band after the state?”

“Do you not know Kansas?” Dean says, “Oh man, one of these days I’m going to sit you down here and we’re going to go through _ every cassette _ I have from them and then you’ll understand music, Cas.”

He rolls his eyes. “Your experiences are always ruinous aren’t they? Eating your food ruins other chefs for me. Riding in your car ruins _ cars _ for me. Why should I allow you to make it so I can’t enjoy other music again?”

“Because you’ll still thank me in the end.” They chuckle good-naturedly, Dean making the turn onto Bobby’s street. “And it’s not like I’m _ ruining _other things for you. It’s just that nothing can compare to what I have.”

“Next you’ll tell me that you’ll ruin other _ people _ for me since _ you’re _ the best person I’ve ever met…”

“I don’t like to toot my own horn, Cas, but… you said it not me.” Castiel punches him, doing so only because he already parked. “Don’t hit me because I’m right.”

“I’m hitting you because you’re _ stupid _…” he bites his lip, “and, maybe right.”

Dean looks at him, happiness resigned and closed off suddenly. “I am?”

“I’ve met a lot of people, one of the perks of moving out of a small town… and you are in the Top Ten of people I know.”

“Am I number one?”

“No, that belongs to a professor I had in college who was the only one that let me hand in all my assignments late _ and _ retake a midterm because my grandmother died. She’s number one.” At Dean’s frown, however, he adds, “but you’re very high up.” In fact, he thinks, Dean could share the same spot Kelly does. Divorce, while painful, didn’t lower his opinion of her. And he believes she’d like Dean if the two met.

“You’re in my Top Ten, too, Cas.”

Bursting with an unnamed emotion, Castiel reaches across the bench and wraps his arms around Dean. He doesn’t return the gesture at first, but Dean slowly inches into the hug. Castiel hears Dean swallow audibly, and notices how his hands sort of hover over his back. Pulling back, he thanks his friend.

“What for?”  
“For being _you_.”

Dean blushes, the popular switch inside him having flicked on. “Shucks, Cas,” he drawls, “you make a man feel all _ gooey _ inside.” His smile falters somewhat, drawing Castiel’s concern. He taps on his wheel, nervous suddenly. “I like you, too. I mean - You’re a swell guy, Cas, and that makes me - you’re you is the best you…” Dean presses his hand against his mouth, physically stopping any more words from coming out.

“Dean?”

“Bobby doesn’t like to be kept waiting,” Dean tells him, unable to meet his eyes, “I hope whatever he had to fix wasn’t too serious.”

Castiel feels the urge to stay. To badger Dean about what happened until he spilled the truth. Any sort of explanation falls short when he comes up with it, Dean harder to pin down that a butterfly.

Instead Castiel unbuckles himself, wearing a mask of false cheeriness. “Thanks for the ride, Dean.”

“Anytime.”

Dean drives off, to either Colette’s or home. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know a lot of things. And they’re all swirling around his heart, his friend at the eye of the storm. Sam’s words come to mind again and Castiel questions if Dean’s assurances about the brother-warning were truthful. Unlike other times he allows these thoughts to fester.


	9. Surprise!

Castiel pushes his plate away from him, leaning back in his seat. “Really, Dean,” he sighs, rubbing his stomach, “I couldn’t eat another bite.”

“You’re sure?” Dean asks, spearing a slice of ham from the platter, “we’ve got a lot here.”

He waves his efforts off. Sam reaches out and pulls Dean’s meat-laden fork away from Castiel’s plate. “Dean, we’re good. Besides we can use the leftovers.”

Dean nods, shaking the ham slice off his fork. “Right, right.” Then, as he has done for most of this evening, he shyly glances at Castiel and draws in on himself. “My bad?”

“You have nothing to apologize for, Dean,” Castiel tells him, “Your food was delicious, I had trouble enough fitting seconds.”

Jack nods, mouth smeared with sauce. “Even the veggies were yummy! How’d you do that?” The asparagus was coated to enhance the taste, making them sweeter than normal. Jack chomped down on them like they were french fries.

Dean blushes at the praise, scratching at his neck. “Sam’s idea. He wanted more veggies and I didn’t… so we compromised.”

“I doubt they’re healthier,” Sam says, “but he eats them. So I take my wins where I can get them.”

“I hope you don’t mind sharing the recipe with me, then,” Castiel asks Dean, “or at least the sauce. That way I can use it every time I cook.” Dean shrugs, clears his throat and says nothing more. His silence strains Castiel’s smile but doesn’t cause it to slip away.

They’ve been playing a strange game, one that Castiel doesn’t know the rules to. What used to be easy conversation became a stilted task, Dean offering his insights and opinion after a series of prompting. Almost like pulling teeth. And whenever Castiel came by his skin was always tinged with a hint of red. What Dean felt embarrassed about he never understood nor felt like it was his place to ask. It made every meeting between them short, and Castiel left with a growing concern.

Even when he had the home advantage his attitude didn’t change. It should have been a sign when Sam extended the invitation in lieu of Dean.

“You and your kids should swing by,” he said one afternoon, leaning against the counter while chatting with Castiel. Dean was in the kitchen working on Sam’s order, which he happily took and left them alone. Before that they were talking in circles about the weather and snow tires. “For dinner,” Sam clarifies, “maybe tomorrow?”

“Are you sure?” he asked, “I mean, would Dean be okay with it?”

Sam rolled his eyes, scoffing. “Dean would be  _ more  _ than okay with it,” he told him, darting his gaze over to the kitchen doors. “Yes or no. Quickly, while he’s not here.”

Castiel accepted, Sam only giving him a general time to arrive by as Dean returned. “I also included some fries for Jody,” he said, “I know she’ll try and steal some of your sso I cut out the middleman.”

“You’re a fry saver, Dean.” He winks at Castiel, “See you later!”

It was a suspicious move, and Sam should have known. Dean scowled at the action, then proceeded to badger Castiel incessantly about it, ignoring every attempt he made to change topics. Finally he lied to his friend about mentioning to Sam about his brakes, and it was a joke. “That he would pull me over again,” Castiel sighed, “I think he might actually want to give me a ticket.”

“I can talk to him, make him cool his jets if you want?”

“No, it’s all meaningless in the end. I know Sam wouldn’t give me a ticket unless I truly deserved it.”

“Yeah it don’t matter if you’re friends with him or you’re his brother…”

Castiel’s brow rose. “Did he give you a ticket?”

Dean blanched, biting his lip. “I might have run a stop sign… but it wasn’t my fault!” he explained, “They were doing some road work, so there were signs everywhere and… I really had to go to the bathroom.”

“Did you explain that to him?”

“Yeah. And he not only wrote me a ticket but made me walk the line while saying the alphabet backwards,” Dean shuddered, “Had me repeat the letter ‘P’ over and over again. Luckily I got home as the dams were bursting.”

“A shame. Here I thought you were going to tell me you peed yourself.”

His friend stared down at the counter, rubbing at a dried bit of ketchup. Castiel clearly saw an expanse of roads to choose from and stepped on the one paved with shit. “No, it’s not that kind of story.”

They fell back into their awkward silence until Castiel finished his milkshake and left. Alex was kind enough to drive Claire and Jack home that day.

Dinner tonight was when they next saw each other, Sam bringing them in to the kitchen. Dean faltered, in a different apron than normal. While the one at his diner was a staunch white, this was streaked in a variety of hues. Once realizing they were staying, Dean tore the rainbow from his chest and stuffed it inside a cabinet. “Sam,” he said, polite tone with a hint of a growl, “a word?”

The brothers went up the stairs, Dean telling Castiel and his family to relax in the living room. “Wow,” Claire chuckled, kicking her feet up on the coffee table, “someone’s got his panties in a bunch.”

“Claire!” he chastised her, “can you not use the p-word?”

“Sorry,  _ undies _ . Better?” She picked up a stray magazine and began leafing through it while Jack used his time to investigate more of the room he hadn’t the chance to last time he was there. He grabbed a picture frame from a nearby shelf and giggled.

Running over to them, he bounced on the open seat next to Castiel. “Look!” he said, “Is this supposed to be Dean and Sam? They’re so tiny?”

Castiel took the photo from his son and studied it. There were three people captured in a happy memory, a woman with soft, green eyes and blonde hair like waves falling from her crown. In her arms was a tiny babe, the blanket a pale yellow embroidered with the letters ‘S’ and ‘W’. Finally a toddler with sandy hair and eyes like his mother grinned with three teeth missing. If Castiel had to guess he would say the woman in the center of the picture was the boy’s mother, taken too soon from them as he learned. Dean had her eyes, and Sam her nose.

Hearing their footsteps coming down the stairs Castiel handed the frame back to his son and told him to place it back where he found it. Then he stood to meet the Winchesters.

“Sorry about that,” Dean said, smile sincere and apologetic, “Needed a moment.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel asked, “If you’d rather eat without -”

“No!” he cut him off, eyes wide, “No, I… it’s really not a big deal. We have the food, and you came all the way here and…” He wrung his hands together, suddenly bashful, “I want you here.”

Four simple words that lifted Castiel’s mood. He clung to them all throughout the dinner, especially as Dean’s actions conflicted with his declaration. While he spoke to Claire and Jack, Dean gave Castiel the bare minimum of attention. And those interactions were filled with the same awkwardness infecting their previous conversations.

Castiel sighs, hitting another roadblock with his question about the recipe and turns his attention elsewhere. He takes his napkin and dabs at Jack’s face. “I swear somehow you’re the messiest eater…” His son laughs, uncaring to how dirty his face was.

“Is there any dessert?” Jack asks, looking at Dean, “Can we have milkshakes?”

Dean frowns. “Sorry, Jack, milkshakes are Colette’s treat.” Aware of Jack’s crestfallen expression, he continues. “But I do have some Oreos we can snack on… if that’s okay with your dad?”

“Sure, he can have a few.” Dean stands, Jack following him. “And only a few!” he calls at their retreating figures, hoping his son doesn’t manipulate Dean into eating the whole container. Jack already looked tired and the added sugar would make it impossible to get him to sleep.

“I’m going to have some, too,” Claire says. Then, in an aside to Sam, she adds, “We don’t have any at home.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Because your uncle stole them from my bag in the parking lot!” She ignores him, heading into the kitchen. He pouts to Sam. “Are you going to leave me for cookies as well?”

Sam shakes his head. “No, it’s not a cheat day for me.” He begins gathering plates, stacking them on top of each other, “If you want to get some…”

“No, no… allow me to help you, actually.” Castiel takes his own plate, as well as Jack’s and a few dishes used to serve them. Together they pass the crowd around the Oreos and stop by the sink.

Dean tracks them with his gaze, frowning. “You don’t have to do that,” he says, “Cas, Sam, I can -”

“No, Dean,” Sam stops him, “we have this. Why don’t you three take those inside and put the TV on? Hmm?” They hold another meeting, this one public and silent. Their stares argue and battle for dominance, Sam’s winning in the end.

Defeated, Dean picks the cookies up and heads over to the living room. “Maybe we can find a rerun of Dawson’s Creek or ER playing…” The kids follow him, leaving Sam and Castiel alone.

“What would you rather do, Cas?” Sam asks him, “wash or put away?”

“I think I can handle putting dishes away,” Castiel says. Sam begins scraping food scraps into the sink under the heavy stream, handing it off when the last crumbs washed away.

Dean and Castiel have washed the dishes together, and it differs greatly from when Castiel does it with Sam. They work in silence, both content to let it hang between them. Usually Dean chatters constantly about nothing, Castiel snickering so wildly his shirt ends up so wet it sticks to his front.

It’s not the only noticeable difference. Sam called him Cas, not for the first time. But in the stillness of the kitchen he can better take stock of his body. The way he says it is friendly and familiar, although doesn’t provoke the same warmth that overtakes Castiel whenever Dean uses it. He uses the quiet to take stock of what about his nickname sounds different between the Winchester brothers.

Sam breaks him from his concentration though, clearing his throat. “I’m sorry about Dean,” he starts, eyes trained on how the water slides off the porcelain dish. Castiel chooses to remain silent, allowing Sam more time to explain himself. “He’s not usually this odd…”

“So it’s not just me.”

“You noticed it, too?”

“How could I not?” Castiel chuckles, placing a plate on the rack, “He’s been more reserved as of late… I can’t help but wonder if there’s anything I might have done.”

“It isn’t you, Cas,” Sam says, “Dean… he always gets like this around this time of the month.”

“He does?”

Sam nods, scrubbing at a stubborn stain with his sponge. “He tries to act like everything’s okay, but he kind of shuts everything off and it gets weird. I thought having you guys over might help but… if you say he’s been weird with you, too.” Castiel goes to tell Sam his findings, but the younger Winchester talks over him. “What didn’t help was me saying it was Eileen joining us for dinner.”

“Eileen?”

“Eileen Leahy? Have you met her?” He shakes his head, and Sam lets out a wistful sigh. A twinkle shines in his eyes and his lips curl slightly upwards, an expression Castiel is familiar with. Kelly said he wore one like it when they met, that he looked smitten. “She’s one of the local vets here in town. Dean figured I asked her here, like on a date. What he wasn’t expecting was an ambush.” Sam rolls his eyes. He mutters, “You try and do something nice for your brother on his birthday…”

Castiel nearly drops the glass he holds. “Birthday?  _ Dean’s _ birthday?”

Sam seizes, dropping the platter with a clang. He gapes at Castiel, mouth flapping like a flag caught in the wind. From the other room Dean asks if everything’s all right. Snapping out of it, Sam answers him. “Yeah, we’re fine!”

“Sam,” Castiel starts, “what’s going on? It’s only a birth-”

He shushes him, soapy hand covering his mouth. Sam glances towards the living room, checking that Dean isn’t too curious to check up on him. When it seems safe, he drops his hand and pushes the faucet as far forward as he could so the stream is blasting into the sink.

“Sam,” Castiel tries again, “what’s with all this secrecy?”

“It’s Dean’s birthday,” Sam explains, “if he knew I was telling you this he’d flip.”

“Why?”

“Because Dean  _ hates _ his birthday.”

Castiel frowns, darting his eyes quickly over towards the room Dean’s in and then back to Sam. “He does?” At Sam’s nod he continues. “Why? It’s his  _ birthday _ .”

“We… don’t really celebrate birthdays, at least we never celebrated his… not after…” He doesn’t need to explain that part, Castiel understanding immediately. “He always made sure I never let a birthday pass without doing something. One time he baked a whole bunch of cupcakes for me to bring into class… it was great. But I didn’t realize he might’ve wanted something similar, and when I did…”

“It was too late?”

“I think he tried celebrating it one year,” Sam says, “Was out for a while. But it was one of the times dad came home early and when he found out he wasn’t watching me. He was  _ livid _ . When Dean snuck in dad was furious and… yeah.”

Castiel’s heart wildly beats against his chest, trying to escape to go embrace the other man in a comforting hug. As it is he barely controls his desire to respond with pointless noises. What Sam said falls in line with that of Dean’s past the older Winchester shared, and he finds himself wishing that they knew each other when they were teens.

“After that he got real defensive about his birthday?” Castiel asks.

Sam nods. “Back in Lawrence he’d spend all day working on his car, wouldn’t eat. Here at least he has the diner, and he gives Benny the day off. But this time it’s on a Sunday so that won’t work. He’ll still have the rest of the day to spiral.”

“So it’s not today?”

“No, it’s the twenty-third.”

Castiel hums, gears turning in his head. The other man notices immediately, prodding his shoulder. “What’re you thinking?” Sam asks.

He answers, “About what kind of present Dean might like -”

“Cas!”

“He’s my friend,” Castiel talks over him, careful not to do so  _ too _ loudly. “And he’s hurting. Over thirty years of bad birthdays, of course he’s going to be sensitive. But  _ we _ can give him a good one!”

Sam’s mouth thins into a bold line, and his eyebrows rise into a judging arch. “This sounds like a bad idea…”

“Sam, please trust me,” Castiel pleads, threads of a plan coming together in his mind, “I think this will really help Dean. But I can’t do it without your help.”

It’s an underhanded tactic, but Castiel juts his bottom lip out and adopts a forlorn expression, one better suited in an ASPCA commercial. While Sarah McClaughlin doesn’t play in tandem with his acting, Sam’s expressions descending into war prove the effectiveness of his choice. Sam rubs at his temple, sighing. “This is going to end  _ horribly _ .”

“Let me handle this, all I’ll need from you is to…” Hidden by the rushing water, Castiel and Sam hatch out a plan for Dean’s birthday.

* * *

The cake is perfect, large enough for all the guests and everything spelled correctly and with the right color frosting. “Don’t know why you need to check my work Cassie,” Gabriel grumbles from off to the side, “it’s not like I’ve ever made a bad cake.”

“I know. I was making sure you didn’t put anything  _ obscene _ on it.”

“And face your wrath?” Gabriel scoffs, “Please, I know which battles to fight and this ain’t it. You owe me sixty for the rush order though.”

Castiel sighs, opening the box of candles. “Can I pay you tomorrow?”

“I’m okay with that.” Gabriel then swipes his finger across the side, sticking it in his mouth and skipping out the room.

“Gabe!” Castiel yells, waving a pink-and-white striped wax candle in his fist. Not wanting to chase him, he lets his brother go and relaxes his fist. Inside the candle has broken in two, not given the chance to fulfill its purpose. Castiel dumps it in the nearby trash can. “I’m sorry,” he mutters softly, placing the rest of the candles around the cake. Finished, he places it on the counter near his fridge and grabs two more chip bowls to bring to the crowd in his living room.

It’s not too large that he needed to go shopping for extra snacks. That being said, the most work done was making sure the guests were attending.

He started at the diner, choosing a time he knew Dean would be away running errands. Walking into Colette’s without seeing Dean behind the counter was strange, but necessary.

“Hey,” Charlie greeted him, “boss man isn’t here right now.”

“I know,” he told her, “I wanted to speak with you, actually.  _ All _ of you.”

Charlie frowned but didn’t deny his request. Instead she brought him to the back, snagging Garth on her way. “We can’t leave this whole place unguarded,” she said, “so whatever you’re about to tell us I’ll fill Max in later.”

“Are there any other servers today?”

“No Alicia’s not working until tomorrow,” she stopped in the middle of the kitchen, spinning on her heel, “Now what do you want to tell us that you don’t want him to know about?”

Castiel waited until Benny and Garth settled to explain. “I wanted to extend an invitation to all of you working here, to come to a party -”

“A party?” Benny cut in, scowling, “ _ Without _ Dean?”

“He’ll be there,” he said, “In fact, it’s  _ for _ him. This Sunday, on his birthday-”

“Dean’s birthday is this Sunday?” Garth exclaimed, grinning, “Really? No foolin’?”

“Yes… did none of you know?” Colette’s staff shook their heads, frowning at the admission. “Of course… it makes sense.”

“Makes sense how?” Charlie asked.

“Dean doesn’t really care for his birthday,” Castiel said, “That’s why I’m inviting you all in secret. It’s going to be a  _ surprise _ party.”

Benny hummed from his place by the stove, folding his arms. “You sure that’s a good idea there, man?”

“What do you mean?”

“You said Dean doesn’t like his birthday,” Charlie said, “And we know our boss… somewhat. He doesn’t care for surprises. This sounds like a recipe for disaster, even if  _ you’re _ the one behind this all.”

“It’ll all work out splendidly,” he reassured them, meeting each of their doubtful gazes. “Can I count on you to come?”

They looked amongst themselves, debating silently. Charlie caved first, stomping her foot. “I know this is a bad idea,” she said, “but you’re too damn  _ dreamy _ . No wonder Dean has a hard time saying no to you.”

Benny sighed, returning to his stove. “As long as you know what you’re doing you can count on us being there.”

“And we’ll bring stuff!” Garth promised, “Oh, do you think you’ll need streamers? Will Dean like streamers? I can ask -”

Charlie elbowed him. “He said  _ surprise _ , dude! As in keep Dean in the dark until day of?” Garth nodded, understanding.

Castiel left them after that, ducking out so he wouldn’t be caught by Dean. Getting into his car, he continued his quest of inviting people around town to Dean’s party. He made stops at both Gabriel’s bakery and Anna’s store, inviting them as well. From what he remembered about Thanksgiving they enjoyed Dean’s company the most. And out of his family they’re the only ones who would allow him complete control over the planning.

While Anna had to decline, already committed to a friend’s baby shower. But she promised to tell Balthazar when she went home. Gabriel, on the other hand, enthusiastically agreed. Even promising to make the cake which set off all the alarms in Castiel’s mind. His brother promised he wouldn’t play any of his tricks, and it looked like he followed through with it.

Although he wouldn’t be sure until they cut into it.

Walking through the crowd Castiel takes inventory of the rest of the guests. Bobby was a big help filling out the invite list, spreading the message to people Castiel never would have thought to ask. Like the owner of the Roadhouse, Ellen and her daughter, Joanna Beth. He remembered them from his past, helping Anna babysit Joanna Beth when she was younger. She hadn’t changed much in the years he was gone, still intimidating and silver-tongued like in her youth.

Other guests include one of the Roadhouse’s bartenders, a woman he went to school with. Pamela suffered an unfortunate accident a few years back that stole her sight, but she didn’t let it steal her attitude. She shoved Bobby’s mechanic, a man named Ash, and called out for more beer. Castiel told her where to find it. He learned the hard way what would have happened if he said he’d get it for her; whacked in the shin with her cane after offering to help her to her seat.

Castiel passes by Bobby, in the middle of a conversation with Jody, Donna, and Crowley. That was the invitation he was most thankful that Bobby handled. “Yeah I can tell ‘im,” he said, “I’m meeting him later tonight for dinner. Rowena won’t be there, if that’s what you were worried about.”

“I was.”

The last person Bobby invited was a woman he only saw in passing, when he went to pick Jack up. Linda Tran taught students a few grades above Jack’s, but she is an integral part in setting up their school’s tutoring program. It was in the folder he received when signing Jack up in the school, and they boasted the fact that with her help students’ grades improved drastically.

She didn’t arrive alone, either. With her was her son Kevin, a boy Claire recognized from her school. Along with Alex who came with Jody, they were the only teens at the party. At first he was afraid his daughter might freeze him out, but when he checked in on her they were all laughing over something she said. He was very proud of her.

Someone taps on his shoulder, drawing his focus. Eileen plucks a chip from the bowl in his hand and chomps on it. “Hey,” she says, “did Sam tell you when they were supposed to get here?”

He hands her the chip bowl to look at his watch. “They should have been here five minutes ago,” Castiel tells her, careful to keep his mouth in her line of sight. Times like these he regrets not taking the sign language elective in his youth. “Sam must have run into some problems.”

As he says this, the doorbell rings. Castiel whips his head around to stare at the door, grinning. “Everyone!” he whisper-shouts, “move into the living room, keep down, and keep quiet.” He flicks off the nearby lamp, the only source of light he kept on. With its dim bulb the shadows of the partygoers wouldn’t tip Dean off when he saw them in the curtains. “Claire,” he says, pushing past Charlie to reach her, “you take care of the lights, okay?”

“On it!”

The doorbell sounds again; longer, like someone presses against it impatiently. Castiel jogs over to the entryway, smoothing out his button-down and fixing his hair. Clearing his throat, he schools his face into an expressionless mask as he welcomes the Winchester brothers.

Sam stands behind Dean, an anxious look on his face. Castiel breezes past this to instead study the sullen curve of Dean’s brows and lips. Hands in his jacket pocket, Dean looks like he wants to be anywhere but here.

“Hey Cas,” Dean attempts a smile, shrugging, “sorry about being late. I forgot to gas up Baby the other day.”

“Understandable,” Castiel smiles, lips twitching with nerves. Briefly he considers how easy his party can backfire on him, urging Dean into a worse mood. There’s no turning back, though, and so he invites Dean in. “Can I take your jacket?”

He nods, sliding it off his shoulders. “Sure thing, Cas -”

“ _ Surprise! _ ”

Dean tenses, eyes widening as he stares at the crowd huddled in his living room. Their faces are frozen in glee, some adorned with party hats others blowing paper noisemakers Garth supplied. Castiel, standing next to him, notices when Dean’s lips twitch downwards and his eyes darken.

He darts out the door, uncaring to the crowd and his brother’s calls. Sam follows him, striding to catch up. Castiel looks between the open door and the party, noticing the depressive mood hovering over them like storm clouds. “Stay here,” he tells them, “I’ll go see what’s happening…” Not waiting for their response, Castiel exits his house and closes the door behind him.

The Winchesters hadn’t left yet, instead arguing on the sidewalk.

“I can’t believe you did that to me, Sam, you  _ know _ how I feel about -”

“Dean, if you would just  _ listen _ instead of go off the rails -”

“You know how much I  _ hate _ today why the fuck do you think it was okay to pull that shit.”

“Dean you’re being very rude right now.”

“Rude?  _ Rude!  _ You’re the rude one, Sam.”

“Enough!” Castiel orders, squeezing between the two bickering men. Sam steps back, allowing him the space to have his say.

Dean, however, snarls and fights back. “Cas, stay out of this. It’s between me and Sam -”

“No, Dean -”

“Seriously, you have nothing to do with -”

“The party was  _ my  _ idea, Dean.”

He finally breaks through to his friend, stunning him into an awed silence. Dean stumbles backwards, glancing between Sam and Castiel. A thousand different emotions flicker across his face until it settles into a pained confusion. “You…” he starts, scowling, “How… Sam?”

“It’s true,” Sam says, “I accidentally let it slip what today was and… he convinced me to help him through this party.”

Dean glares at Castiel. “ _ Why _ ? If Sam told you what today was… he should have told you how much I -”

“Hate it?” Castiel finishes for him, “Yes, he did warn me. He warned me that you might react like this… still, I took the chance to bring your friends together and throw you this party.”

“...Why?”

“Why?” Castiel parrots, chuckling, “Why? Because  _ no one _ should hate their birthday, Dean. Least of all you.”

His lip stiffens, and Dean closes himself off from Castiel. “It’s my birthday, and I can do whatever the fuck I want on it. So who cares if I hate it. Birthdays don’t really mean anything when you get past twenty-one. They were dumb back then, and they’re dumb now. I didn’t  _ need _ this.”

“I happen to disagree.”

“You disagree?” Dean barks a harsh laugh, “Sam, you hear that? Cas disagrees. Tell me why  _ you’re _ right, then?”

Castiel considers the challenge carefully. While he issued it, Dean doesn’t look ready to listen. Instead he resembles a crouched lion ready to pounce on whatever argument Castiel has, ripping it to shreds with his dangerous claws and sharp wit. Not a speck of the man he knows is visible behind the protective shell he erected.

So he reaches into his heavy artillery. It worked for me when I was at my lowest, he reasons, it should do the same with Dean. “Because I know what it’s like to hate your birthday.”

“If we’re going to compare crappy childhoods Cas, I doubt you’ll be able to beat me-”

“Can you shut up and listen?” he demands, squinting until Dean settles. “Thank you. As I was saying, I didn’t much care for my birthday. Not to this level, no... because of a party.” When Dean remains quiet, he continues. “When I was in the fifth grade I wanted to have this grand party, with a bouncy castle and a horse that we could ride around my backyard. My parents gave it all to me, spending hours getting it all set up and ready for when the guests arrived. Do you know what happened? No one showed up.”

Dean’s face falls in sympathy before correcting itself. “Bummer, Cas,” he says, voice tinged with a shaky timber, “How did that help you not hate your birthday? Sounds like the opposite.”

“It’s true, I shouldn’t like my birthdays after that. I was  _ crushed _ . I gave invites to everyone in my class, double-checking to see if they received them and they most certainly  _ did _ . What I failed to realize was that one boy in my class, Bartholomew, convinced everyone not to go to my party.”

“Kids are jerks.”

“And careless and thoughtless,” Castiel whispers, “I felt so alone… sitting in front of a cake surrounded by goodie bags no one could take home. Believed that no one cared for me, and that I was stupid, useless, and no one  _ liked _ me.”

“What happened?” Sam asks, enraptured by Castiel’s tale.

“My family showed up,” Castiel tells them, “My siblings joined me, my parents… and then my aunt and cousins came by. They all went out of their way to cheer me up, putting aside their differences to make sure that I had the best day possible. To show me that people cared about me… that I  _ mattered _ .”

He steps closer to Dean than laws of personal space allow, delighting in how the act makes him the center of Dean’s world. Castiel stresses his next few sentences very carefully. “I’m sorry that never happened with you on any of your birthdays. But that’s why I decided to throw you this party. You said that some people’s friends are their family, how it doesn’t end in blood… let us be your family. Show that we care about you and you  _ matter _ to us. It’s why we all gathered here.”

Dean glances at Castiel’s house, mulling over his words. Gaze flitting back to Castiel, he asks, “You mean it? You care about me?”

“Yes. And I’ll repeat it however many times you need to hear it.”

He gasps, Dean’s arms wrapping around his shoulders to squeeze him in a surprise hug. Their heads knock together, bodies rocking from the force with which Dean crashed into him. His friend whispers in his ear, “Thank you, Cas, really.” Sniffling, Dean draws back faster than Castiel could react. “So,” he clears his throat, “this party. Isn’t much of one if I’m not there, right?”

Sam treads carefully. “You sure you don’t mind?”

Staring at Castiel, he says, “No. No I don’t mind at all.” Then he stalks away towards the house, leaving Sam and Castiel behind. They watch him bounce up the steps, much lighter than earlier.

Castiel moves to join him when he feels a firm hand on his elbow holding him back. Sam keeps him there, eyes watery. He swallows down a lump in his throat, blinking. “You… what you just did?” he says, turning to him, “_Thank_ _you_.”

Hit with a powerful wave of emotion, Castiel drowns in the gratitude and feels tears pricking at his own eyes. “I meant it,” he shrugs, unable to come up with anything better after exhausting himself.

“Hey!” Dean calls to them, “You two done or are you gonna spend all night out there?”

They hastily retread the path to Castiel’s house, all entering together. Inside the atmosphere subdued considerably, guests milling about.

Realizing he needed to do damage control, Dean begins by drawing their attention towards him. “Hey,” he says, shuffling under their scrutiny, “Thank you, everyone, for coming out here tonight. Really. I appreciate it. I… I’m not used to this so, I freaked. But I’m feeling better so… if we can all forget what happened and start from the top?”

He asks a lot from them, and they milk the tension for all it’s worth; trading looks between them like his living room was the main floor of the stock market. Deeming it long enough, Bobby ends his waiting with a huff. “Get in here so we can do this right. Some of us have work in the morning.”

The shroud dropped over the room vanishes and a delightful cheer affuses the party guests. Castiel leans against the archway to his living room and stands apart from the crowd. Seeing Dean glow from all the birthday wishes was its own joy, headier than any drug, and tastier than Gabriel’s pastries.

* * *

“Dean, it’s your party. You don’t have to stay and help me clean up.”

His friend ignores him, dumping another forgotten plate with plastic cutlery into the garbage bag they have sitting in the middle of the living room. “You did all this for me, Cas,” he tells him, “least I can do is help you clean.”

“Wouldn’t you rather be at home, though?” Castiel asks, “In bed? Relaxing?”

“Trying to get rid of me?”

“Never.”

Dean sighs, tapping a plastic fork against a red Solo cup. “In all the excitement we didn’t really get a chance to spend any time together besides… the  _ meltdown _ . It wouldn’t be a perfect birthday if I didn’t steal at least a few more moments with you.”

Castiel smiles, warmed by the admission. “Well, as much fun as it was talking you down from your ledge… I’m glad you would clean up just to be in my presence.”

When Dean fully accepted the inevitability of his party, he threw himself into it with abandon. Flitting from group to group, conversing with them and enjoying their company. Castiel, stuck with host duties, only caught snippets of their discussions. Teasing from Ash and Pamela, some motherly affection from Ellen; Bobby and Crowley bickered while Dean played referee. And when he was leaving to light the candles of Dean’s cake he could have sworn Linda was asking Dean about catering for a school event. At no point did their paths cross for more than a few seconds. Nothing meaningful born from those interactions. Him staying behind was his own special gift.

“You could make a king give up his crown, Cas,” Dean chuckles, sweeping crumbs off his coffee table and into the expanding black bag.

“An honor I’m sure.” As he picks up a discarded napkin Castiel sees a shadow slowly descending across the room. Following it, he comes upon the tired figure of his son. “Jack,” he says, “what are you doing up?”

Jack reaches the end of the stairs, rubbing at his eyes with one closed fist while the other held a piece of paper. “Sorry, dad,” he yawns, “I was about to go to sleep when I remembered Dean’s gift.”

Castiel startles, unaware his son had a present for Dean. All the ones from his friends were safely locked inside his car’s trunk. Sam helped them carry a few packages before leaving with Eileen. Allowing Dean to tease him all the way to the green truck was a gift in its own right.

“A gift?” Dean asks, “Jack… you didn’t have to-”

“Of course I did,” Jack giggles, shuffling over towards Dean, “I made it extra special for you. Look!” He holds the paper out to Dean, wiggling his hand until he took it. After he opens it, Jack begins explaining. “It’s a picture I drew. I’m the one in the red shirt, Claire’s the girl with the blonde hair… Mom has brown hair, and dad’s wearing his weird jacket-”

“It’s not weird,” Castiel grumbles to himself, tying the garbage bag closed.”

“And next to him,” Jack continues, “Is you! What do you think? You like it?”

Dean sniffs, coughing out a warbled sob. Castiel glances at them, noticing the tears pooling around his eyes. He lays the paper down on the coffee table and, like he did with Castiel earlier, pulls his son into a tight hug. “I don’t just like it, Jack. I love it. You’re a really talented artist…”

Jack returns the gesture. “You think? I had a hard time. I drew you from memory ‘cause we don’t have any pictures of you in the house and I would’ve spoiled the surprise if I worked on it at Colette’s.”

“It was like looking in the mirror.”

Castiel tiptoes over for a peek at his son’s artwork. Dean definitely over exaggerated his son’s abilities, the drawing of Dean being a perfect copy if he suddenly became two dimensional and lost a finger on each hand. Still, he delights in how wonderful he is with Jack.

“Now that you’ve given Dean your gift,” Castiel says, placing a hand on Jack’s back, “you should go back to bed. You’ll be too tired for school if you stay up.”

“Listen to your dad, kid,” Dean unfurls from his crouch, “off to bed.”

Jack leaves them, hurrying up the steps and back into his room. When the door shuts Dean collapses onto the couch, dragging his hands down his face and with them streaking spent tears across his cheeks. “Fuck,” he croaks, “I think with Gabe’s cake and Jack’s present I  _ officially _ have diabetes.”

Castiel drops down next to him, shoving him. “Shut up.”

“No, it’s true,” he continues, “I think I overdosed on all that sweetness.”

“Maybe you expired,” Castiel suggests, smirking, “I mean, thirty-five is pretty old…”

“Says the thirty-eight year old.”

“You wish you were as mature as me.” Dean responds to this by pushing his head away, and Castiel sticks his tongue out. They descend into a snickering mess, leaning against each other to prevent themselves from colliding.

Breathing deeply, Castiel reaches over for Jack’s drawing to study it closer.

Five figures in an empty void smile at him with circular, unblinking eyes he imagines staring into his soul. They all look happy and together; a great feat given the distance between them and Kelly. That means nothing to Jack, though, who draws her holding Claire’s hand. Claire does the same with Jack, who holds his hand and he and Dean are…

His cheeks heat up, surprisingly, from such an innocent act. I must be more exhausted than I realize, he thinks, placing the paper back down. Wanting to regain control of himself, Castiel relaxes into the couch and begins a conversation with Dean.

They talk well into the night, only stopping when Castiel’s eyelids droop further and further closed. Dean takes it as his cue to leave, thanking Castiel again for all he’s done and wishing him a delightful rest.

Castiel slumps against the door after locking it, dazed. We were up far later than we should have been, he realizes, and yet somehow I feel it wasn’t enough.

When his head hits the pillow, that thought clings to his mind. But as he opens his eyes to greet the early morning sun it loses its grip and descends into the inky darkness of his subconscious, forgotten.


	10. Double Trouble

He hears someone scooting into the seat across from him. Castiel waits until he finishes adding a few numbers together before looking up. Dean’s name rests on his tongue, waiting to be voiced. It never get the chance, curling back into his mouth as he takes in the figure across from him.

Meg reaches across the table to his half-finished milkshake, sipping at it. “Strawberry,” she hums, smirking, “my favorite flavor.”

Castiel searches the room for a reason she joined him in his booth, an odd choice considering three other booths and four tables were unoccupied. Yet she chose to sit with him.

Odd given their only interaction was his attempt at signing her on as a client. After embarrassing himself thoroughly he didn’t think she would pay him any attention. And if he saw her in town Castiel would do his best to give her space. If only to ease his beating heart and sweaty palms.

“Hello,” he starts, toying with the edges of his paper, “can I… help you?”

She spins the straw, leaning against the nearby window and swinging her legs up onto the seat. Her feet hang out the booth, shiny black leather wet with melted snow. “I think I’d like to take you up on your offer.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Going over my books?” she prompts, brow arched, “Remember… when you came into my shop the other day?”

He frowns. “It was a few months ago.”

Shrugging, she slurps down the remainder of his milkshake. “Feels like the other day, to me at least.” Fist to her chin, she rests her elbow on the table. “Must have really left an impression on me.”

Castiel seizes slightly. He understands exactly what’s happening from the curl of her cherry lips to the way she twirls her brunette hair with her finger. She’s flirting with him. Immediately his body heats up and he pulls at his collar. His heart slams against his rib cage, distracting his brain enough he can’t come up with a response.

Luckily Charlie swings by, menu in hand. She looks between the two with a funny gleam in her eye. Like she stepped away from work and tuned into an amusing program. “Meg,” she greets, “when I said sit anywhere I didn’t mean it _ literally _.”

Meg shrugs. “Clarence here doesn’t mind, do you?”

“Yeah, _ Clarence _ ,” Charlie asks, teasingly, “ _ do you _?”

He shakes his head, dropping his stare down to his work and focusing instead on his papers. The intended schedule for today didn’t include Meg’s disruption. Castiel came in to do his work, eat a delicious burger, and chat with Dean when both looked to avoid their work. It seemed like the universe was scheming with his family, however, to disrupt his plans.

In the new year Becky’s hinting has risen to a new level. She used to imply, occasionally, how nice it might be if he began putting himself back into the dating arena. Now the near daily attacks were so heavy his willful ignorance was obvious. It reached a point where others in his family started adding their own opinions.

Anna broached the subject carefully one afternoon, after going over her and Balthazar’s plans for Valentine’s Day. “Really it’s so sweet, he planned all of this without me having to remind him,” she sighed, smiling.

Castiel mirrored her expression, pushing the food around on his plate. While he was happy for her, discussions of the holiday reminded him of Valentine’s Days of the past. Then he grew wistful, teetering on the edge of a depressive episode.

His sister carried on regardless. “You know,” she says, “there’s this… really interesting event happening on Friday. If you’re interested…” He squints, suspicious.

“What kind of event?”

“You’ll meet a lot of people, maybe some you might want to-”

“No,” Castiel cut her off, “I’m not going to Jo’s Potluck.”

She gave up easier than his sister-in-law. When Jo called him earlier that day she kept talking, giving Castiel no time to say his piece. Telling him how she set it up with women in her bible study club and he would like a few of them were asking after Castiel, wooed by what Jo told them. He finally managed to hang up on her after lying about his eggs catching on fire. Nothing was on the stove.

“Can you all just… leave me alone,” Castiel begged her, “why is it so important if I’m single? Gabriel’s single? _ Luke _ is single?”

“Yeah, but they don’t have children,” she said, “You, on the other hand, _ do _ . And at some point you’re going to come across a problem a _ father _ can’t solve.”

Castiel glared, feathers ruffled. “I’m doing fine. If I wanted to seek out a relationship I would. Except that I’m _ not interested _.”

“If you say so,” she sighed, “but I know there’s more your missing out on that’s not in this house or _ Colette’s _.” He didn’t respond to that loaded comment, and they finished their lunch in silence.

Blinking out of the memory, he glances up to find Meg still there. Charlie left when he wasn’t looking, meaning there was nothing to distract Meg’s focus. She unabashedly watches him, knee up so she can rest her other elbow on it. “You see anything you like?” he asks.

“A lot,” she answers him, “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

Castiel fixes his frames, clearing his throat. “Yes, well… they help me see.”

“Real cute,” she chuckles, “you use that sharp wit on all the girls or am I special?”

“I don’t really… _ talk _ with other girls.”

“Then call me special...”

Two glasses of milkshakes slam onto the table, startling them. Dean hovers above them, a tight smile pulled across his face. “Charlie said you needed some milkshakes?” he says, gaze heavy on Castiel.

Meg grabs one of the strawberry milkshakes, huffing. “Warn someone next time,” she tells him, “sneaking up on your customers is bad for business.”

“I was very loud,” Dean argues, “it’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention.”

The aggressive tone in Dean’s voice confuses Castiel. It’s the first he’s ever seen him with tense shoulders and a set jaw in his diner. Thinking back to what Dean said of Meg, he didn’t have anything against her. However he isn’t sure with the cool front he puts up.

“Thank you,” Meg says, her own smile acidic, “Is there anything else or…?”

“Cas,” Dean turns to him, “you need anything? If you’re trying to get work done…” It’s an out, obvious to both him and Meg. His uninvited guest squints at Dean, frowning at him. Dean ignores her, intense gaze set on him. As if he’s firing off a message, launching arrows that miss their mark. Castiel can’t tell exactly what Dean wants from him.

“No, I’m fine here,” he says shakily, “Thank you for your concern.”

“Okay…” He shuffles in place, somewhat unwilling to leave. Meg huffs, sucking on her drink. The sound affects Dean, his left eye twitching. Still he stays.

Until Charlie swings by and locks elbows with him. “We have five more orders for milkshakes, boss!”

He splutters. “But -”

“Leave them be,” she chastises, “Castiel’s a big boy.” Charlie winks at him. “Sorry for the interruption, you kids enjoy yourselves!” Dragged off, Dean sneaks one last peek at them with a pained expression across his face. Confusion tickles the base of his skull, and Castiel can’t stop looking at the counter.

But then Meg tugs on his tie so they’re facing each other once more. “So,” she starts, “do you?”

“Do I…” he swallows roughly, “Do I _ what _?”

“Want to take a look at my books?”

Castiel skews his head to the side. “You mean that wasn’t a flirtation?”

Meg snorts into her drink, some of it pouring out her nose. She rushes to grab a napkin, hiding her face until all the mess was wiped away. “Oh honey,” she giggles, “trust me… you’ll _ know _ when I use… _ flirtations _.”

Unsure, Castiel thinks he might have misread the situation. Meg could have sat with every intention to hire him for his services. But then she twirls her straw between her fingers, sliding it between her lips and sucking, unblinking. Castiel shifts in his seat, cheeks heating as he falls deeper into her chocolate stare.

“Clarence?” she asks him, breaking her spell. Meg licks across her teeth, flashing them in a devilish show to Castiel. “You doing okay there?”

“I’m… _ fantastic _, really,” he breathes, mirroring her expression, “If you’re serious about my services, I can go over exactly what to expect if you hire me.”

“I’m all ears,” she says, “tell me what you do.”

Castiel launches into his pitch, hands nervously shuffling and stacking the papers he laid out before him. Meg listens with interest, actively asking questions during his spiel that they branch into a mini conversation until Castiel remembers where he left off. She doesn’t mind him jumping back into it, somehow following the broken presentation Castiel gives. When their food comes they only break so he can put away his papers and Charlie can place the plates down.

“I had to pry these out of Dean’s hands,” she whispers to him, chuckling, “Boss was about to stomp his way over again. Don’t worry, though, I’ll keep him busy while you score.” Shooting him a thumbs up, Charlie bounces away.

Castiel bites on his bottom lip, nerves backfiring in response to Charlie’s comment. He totally forgot how easily their business meeting could be misconstrued as a date, Castiel himself stumbling into that trap earlier.

“Someone’s a little over protective,” Meg scoffs, squirting ketchup all over her fries.

“What do you mean?”

“Dean?” she says, “What does he think I’m gonna do with you, swallow you whole?” Chuckling, she chews on a fry. “You might be a hunk of meat but I’m no python.”

“That… uh…” He can’t come up with any semblance of words that might make sense. Instead of responding, he shoves his burger into his mouth and prays he doesn’t choke.

Meg stops eating, finally frowning. “I’m not making you _ uncomfortable _ am I?” she asks, “Because if I am, you just gotta say so, dude, and I am _ gone _.”

He freezes, cheeks puffed up from his burger. Castiel reflects on his body, wondering if Meg did make him uncomfortable. It was one word to describe how he felt in the moment, but not for what she fears.

Castiel’s body reacts in a familiar way under her scrutiny, making it harder than ever to believe his assertion that they’re only carrying on because of business. Suddenly his nervousness parts and he gains clarity over his body’s responses. There’s an underlying attraction there, Castiel raking his eyes over what he can see of Meg once more and appreciating every inch he sees. The combat boots, leather jacket, and low cut t-shirt aren’t standard for a florist but captures her spirit perfectly.

Intimidation is sexy, he thinks, and Meg dresses to do exactly that.

“On the contrary,” he says, smirking, “I’m quite the _ opposite _.”

Meg grins. “Then can we stop dancing around the issue and get to the main event?”

“You were flirting with me, then.”

“Of course,” she chuckles, “you should always assume that with any girl who comes up to you. Stubble, blue eyes, and that _ voice _? I swoon.”

Castiel laughs, chest heaving with the intense pleasure of her compliment. While he knew he had his own admirable qualities, hearing his opinion confirmed gave him a heady rush. “I hope not too much,” he warns, “I’d hate for this to turn one-sided. I appreciate someone who can _ talk back _.”

“You don’t know what you’re getting into,” Meg warns, “I’m all about talking back.”

“Then why don’t you show me,” he says. He leans on the table, gaze darkening. “While we’re together.”

Meg shifts in her seat so her back is against the vinyl cushioning. “I think you’ll like what you see.”

Conversation begins anew, moving past the confines of numbers and profit. They share bits and pieces of their lives with each other. Castiel learns of her interest in flowers, how her father was the original owner of the shop before he died to lung cancer. He remembered Azazel, the town’s original florist, and was surprised to learn she was his daughter. They didn’t carry much of a family resemblance.

“It’s not like we ran in the same circles,” she says, “You were off partying while I was at home cutting my Barbie’s hair with kiddie scissors.”

“Parties?” Castiel scoffs, “You think too highly of me.”

“You were a dork back then?”

“That was one word of many used to describe me…”

It continued much like that. Trading stories alongside jokes, spending more time laughing than eating. His fries became cold given he chose to listen Meg describe the time she narrowly avoided colliding with a truck on her motorcycle. Hearing more of her life made Castiel realize how much of his he was missing out on.

Sitting with her, chatting, he forgot every reason he gave to his family about why he didn’t want to date again. Knowing another person saw him as a viable romantic interest brought him to a dizzyingly level of bliss he hadn’t known since Kelly accepted his coffee date on the last day of his and Amelia’s trial. He missed being the object of another’s affections. The person who made their skin flush, heart race, and smile widen.

In the back of his mind he hears a familiar voice not unlike his brother Gabriel. Telling him about his pursuits and conquests, recounting them as if they’d inspire inside Castiel a need to go out and live out his own experiences. “There’s something about a younger woman, Cassie,” he said, “it makes you feel younger.” He thought it was a poor attempt of an aging bachelor to be cool but being with Meg adds credence to his brother’s words. Castiel draws strength and charm from an unknown vitality, locked away in a part of him he didn’t know. Its power enchants him, and he chases after the rush.

“I’ve been away far longer than I should have,” Meg admits, pushing her plate away, “but I don’t regret it.”

“I’m _ glad _.”

“Say,” she lowers her voice, smirking, “you wouldn’t want to maybe… continue this some other time, would you?”

Surprisingly, Castiel _ wants _to see her again. All his reasoning for keeping himself tied to singlehood fades away, replaced with a strong desire to have somebody to hold, to kiss, to call his. He cannot deny the serial monogamist that dwells inside his heart.

However he can’t take the last step. Nerves strangle his vocal chords as he tries to answer her. A wall slams down on the hidden battery, locking it away from him. In its place worries that he’s too old, not only for her but for dating strike at his heart; tearing away his confidence like it was styrofoam. Castiel needs a boost from another, more consistent source.

“Can you give me a moment?”

She nods, and he slides out and strides over to the counter with an attempted ease. Dean slowly cleans out a glass, glumbly standing by his blender without a trace of the usually boisterous man he knows. His hopes falter, scared Dean might not be able to help. Still he clears his throat and calls Dean over to him.

“What?” he asks, pouting, “you and your _ friend _ need another milkshake?”

“No, I…” Castiel trails off, squinting, “Are you all right?”

The crease to his friend’s brow worries him, drawing him out of his anxiousness. Any thought of Meg gets pushed away at the sight of Dean’s dimples on full display, discontent oozing from them.

“I’m fine,” he huffs, crossing his arms, “Is that what you came here to ask about?”

“No, no… but are you sure?” he continues prodding, glancing back at his table to see Meg ripping a napkin to shreds. “Is this about-”

“It’s not about anything,” Dean snaps at him. Castiel backs away, jaw dropping slightly. Seeing his reaction calms Dean down somewhat, maybe realizing he overreacted to Castiel’s concern. “Sorry,” he says, rubbing at his eye, “I’m… it’s nothing too important. _Business_. What did you want to ask me?”

“I’m not sure I should,” Castiel says, slowly, “if you’re not feeling up to it.”

“No, go ahead. Please.”

The scales of his desires seesaw wildly, debating between needing to make sure Dean is truly okay and wanting to secure his chance with Meg. The latter wins out. “Meg asked me on a date.”

Dean’s face darkens for a beat before he sucks it inside. A smile stretches across his lips. It looks painful to Castiel. “Really?”

He nods. “Thing is I… I don’t think I can do this.”

“Why not?”

“So many reasons,” Castiel scoffs, “It’s been ages since I’ve been single, I don’t know what I’m doing, I’m not good enough…”

“Hey!” Dean barks, gaze alight with a fiery glow, “Don’t you say that about yourself. _ Anyone _ would be damn _ lucky _ to have you.”

His passionate declaration rocks Castiel on his heels, throwing him off track. He searches for where he left off, contenting himself by staring into Dean’s warm gaze. “Anyway,” he says, “I… I thought you might have any ideas of what I should do.”

Dean deflates, shoulders hunching over. “It’s really simple, Cas. You either say yes, or you say no.”

“I want to say yes but I’m too _ nervous _.”

“Damn, Cas,” Dean rolls his eyes, “not like I can say yes for you. Or go on the date, too.”

The bell to the front entrance chimes, and an idea appears in Castiel’s head. “That’s perfect!”

“...What is?”

“Come on the date,” he pleads, “we can make it a double!”

“A-a double date?” Dean stammers, trembling, “Cas, I was… that was supposed to be a joke. Me and dating, we’re…”

“Please, Dean,” Castiel tries, curling his lips into a convincing pout, “just for the first one. I know what it’s like, not being a fan of dating. Maybe we could help each other out.”

Dean shakes his head, frowning at the counter. “_ This _ wouldn’t help at _ all _…” he mutters.

“Dean…?”

He tips his head back, a manic smile slapping over his features. “I don’t know why I’m saying this,” he tells Castiel, “but… okay. If she can scrounge up a partner then… I’ll be your support.”

“Thank you!” he reaches over and squeezes Dean’s hand, “I promise you won’t regret this.”

Castiel spins around, so fast he misses what Dean says but knows it was him from the twang that rocks against his ears. He returns to Meg, a plan in place, ready to begin again in his hometown. It’s already off to a great start because instead of journeying down the path of romance alone, he’ll have Dean by his side.

* * *

Castiel fixes his hair in the mirror, playing with it in an attempt to have it lie flat against his head. No amount of gel, brushes, or hair dryers can control his gravity-defying locks, and the nest sits as messy as ever. Giving up, he instead checks his neck for any patches of stubble he missed with his razor.

He forgot how much trouble and effort went into dating.

After making the arrangements with Meg and relaying them with Dean, Castiel raced home to prepare. Back-to-back dates were terrifying, and he hopes none of the spark between he and Meg dies from when they parted at the diner to when they’ll meet up again at the Roadhouse.

“Dad!” Claire yells up to him, “Dad, Dean’s here!”

“Shit,” he whispers, eyeing his watch. Five minutes past seven-thirty. Castiel is late. He smooths out the long shirt he chose, white and tight enough to cling to his body. It complements his black jeans and the boots he’s wearing. When deciding what to wear he searched his wardrobe with the idea to dress as if Meg picked out his clothes.

It might not be his style but he looks almost cool enough to be on a date with her.

Flying down the stairs, he lands gracelessly. Stumbling over the last step and nearly twisting his ankle if not for the bannister. His daughter and friend watch with varying expressions, the former judgmental while the later he couldn’t tell. A strange fog had overtaken Dean’s gaze, it locked on where the material of his shirt hugged his chest. Clearing his throat, Castiel drags Dean back into the present.

“Looking good, Cas,” he says, voice rough, “you’ll fit right in at the Roadhouse.”

“I’m glad I didn’t overdress,” Castiel says, eyeing Dean’s own choices for the evening. “You look good, too.” The more he takes his outfit in the clearer it becomes Dean didn’t change out of his work clothes. The orange plaid shirt and jeans were the same from earlier, down to the stain on the left sleeve.

“Come on,” he sighs, “gotta get going if we’re gonna meet our… _ dates _.”

“I’ll be with you shortly,” he tells Dean, grabbing his parka from the closet. Turning to Claire, he asks, “Are you sure you’ll be okay tonight?”

It was short notice for a babysitting order. While debating with himself about putting a call out to his family, warring over whether having an adult in the house was worth setting off the phone tree. In a moment of weakness Claire descended, arguing that she could watch Jack on her own.

“I’m almost sixteen anyway,” she told him, “I can spend a few hours here by myself.”

“With Jack.”

“Yeah, yeah, so are you going to let me do it or not?”

Every instinct screamed not to trust his daughter. Especially when she wore such an angelic look. A very obvious trap. But she had been good for awhile, he thought. Overpowering his doubt with the strength of his trust, Castiel agreed to her suggestion.

Still, as a father, he worries. Claire rolls her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“I left money on the counter -”

“For pizza.”

“And if you need to reach me the number for the Roadhouse -”

“Is on the fridge, as well as the Dean’s number if we need to reach Sam, and the number for the police. Which, really?” she scoffs, “I think we can remember nine-one-one.”

“Sorry,” he says, flushing slightly, “it’s not that I don’t think you’re capable, it’s-”

“It doesn’t matter, dad,” she cuts him off, gesturing to the door. “Dean’s waiting. Go or you two’ll be late for your _ ladies _.” Castiel pauses, her snark troubling him. It occurs to him that he should have sat down with his children and discussed the possibility of romantic pursuits, to see how they felt. All this time he claimed they wouldn’t adjust to someone new coming into their lives, that when the day finally arrived their opinions were the furthest from his mind. A bit hypocritical, he realizes.

But then Dean honks his horn and any chance to correct his mistake disappears. “I love you both,” he says, kissing Claire’s forehead, “I’ll try not to be out too late.”

“Stay out as late as you want,” she says, “It’s _ no problem _.” Claire shuts the door after him, Castiel jogging over towards Dean’s idling car.

He slides in, grinning over at his friend. “I hope I didn’t make you wait too long?”

Dean shrugs. “Could’ve taken as much time as you want,” he says, shifting into drive, “I’d’ve had no problem.” The sullen tone pulls at the corners of Castiel’s smile, dragging them down despite the excitement thrumming through his veins. Castiel fights against it. His friend’s cool mask of indifference won’t dampen his mood.

Although he will admit to wondering why Dean acts like they’re on their way to an execution rather than a date. A simple answer, that it’s a facade to hide away his own bundle of nerves for the night, cross his mind. Except a sense tells him he’s wrong. That he has the pieces of the puzzle laid before him and he assembled it poorly. While the end result matched the box, the inherent landscape was unrecognizable.

Castiel can examine this from all angles, what with Dean’s silence and the lack of music filling the cabin. The odd quietness of the cabin unsettles Castiel given how sanitized and icy it feels. Even when neither of them feel the need to talk, Dean adds his own noise. Tapping a rhythm on a nearby surface, bouncing his leg, or humming. Glancing from the corner of his eye, he sees a Dean-sized statue in the driver’s seat.

It lasts until they park a block away from the Roadhouse. “You ever been here, Cas?” he asks.

He shakes his head. “I never had the time,” Castiel says, “Is there anything I need to know?”

“Depends. You ever been to a bar?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’ll be fine,” Dean tells him, stepping out, “Hurry up, now, we were supposed to meet them ten minutes ago.”

Castiel quickly follows after Dean, keeping close as they walk slush-heavy sidewalks towards the Roadhouse. He tucks his hands deep into his jacket, glad they wouldn’t be out in the cold for long. If they were Castiel would have zipped his jacket tight and thrown the hood over his head. The parka already comes off when they step through the doors and into the bar.

“Why I must be drunker than I thought? Dean Winchester?” Dean stiffens, darting around to find out who called his name until Joanna Beth breaks through the crowd. He relaxes slightly, back to the level he’s been coasting at from the moment Castiel saw him in his house.

“Hey Jo,” he says, “you’re not seeing things… it’s me.”

“Could you sound any unhappier?” she scoffs, punching his arm. Seeing Castiel behind him, she waves. “Good seeing you too, Castiel.”

“Likewise, Joanna Beth-”

“Please!” she groans, “It’s Jo.”

He apologizes. “Old habits die hard,” he explains.

“Well maybe if you spent some more time here you’d realize I ain’t the pigtailed girl you used to watch,” she says, glancing between them, “So, what brings you here tonight?”

“Dates,” Castiel answers, “We’re supposed to be meeting them here?”

“Damn,” Joanna Beth growls, “looks like I owe Meg ten bucks.”

“She’s already here?”

“Her and Bela,” she tells them, jerking her thumb towards the back, “at a table. Already dropped off a round. Figured they’d need four beers to drink away their troubles because in no way did I believe Bela when she said ol’ Dean here was her date.” Joanna Beth bumps shoulders with him, winking. In response Dean curls even further inside himself. Saying nothing further Joanna Beth directs her attention to Castiel. “You can walk yourself over, right?”

“We’ll handle ourselves perfectly, thank you.”

They part ways, Joanna Beth over to the bar and he and Dean following her directions to their table. Castiel searches for Meg, finding her chatting with another brunette. Her head turns and Castiel waves at her. She sees him and smirks. “Look who finally decided to show up,” she drawls, “had us worried you weren’t gonna show.”

“It’s my fault,” he says, “some last minute things I needed to handle.”

“Guy worries after his kids,” Dean adds, shrugging, “hard enough to tear him away from them as it is.”

Castiel whips around, gaping at Dean. The cold aloofness around him dropped, and a new persona emerges from the wreckage. He finally smiles, although in a cruel imitation with teeth so sharp they’re fit for biting. Dean meets his stare and Castiel sees an unknown gleam working there, a spark lit dangerously close to a puddle of oil.

Meg draws him back, snorting. “Family man, cute. Why don’t you sit, then, or do you have to run back to the homestead.”

“No, they can handle themselves for a few hours.” Castiel sits, Dean joining a few beats later. Slumping into his seat.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” the fourth member of their party says, hand reaching out to Dean. “Bela Talbot.”

He perfunctorily shakes it once, hands hiding underneath the table when finished. “Dean.”

“Oh I know,” she grins, “who _ wouldn’t _ know you, Dean Winchester.” Her predatory tone causes Castiel’s skin to itch, triggering a protective desire within him to shield his friend from her. Clearly Dean’s date was one of his many fans. And remembering what _ they _ were like has him regretting convincing Dean to join him tonight. “I have to say,” she continues, British accent thick in the smoky atmosphere, “I feel like I’ve won the lottery tonight. Do you know how many of us in town dream about a moment like this?”

Dean shifts in his seat, grimacing. “All too well…”

Meg explains their shared past, having went to the same college together in upstate New York. They didn’t dorm together their first semester, but did share a business class.“We bonded over small towns,” Meg tells them, “since we both grew up in ‘em.”

“Mine was a tiny village east of Northampton,” Bela says, “so small it was _ droll _ . You could barely fill up the local chapel, vicar could see _ everything _.”

“I understand that,” Castiel sighs, “our old priest, the one before Metatron, he knew all our names. I’m not sure if the current one has the same capacity for memory.”

“You’re originally from Lebanon?” Bela asks.

“Yeah,” Dean answers for him, “he moved back after a divorce. Second one, not the first.”

Dean’s admission caused him to blush, and he chances a glance in Meg’s direction. No one likes a divorcee, especially when they’ve gone through the process more than once. Friends made sure of that. At least living in a new town meant his coworkers would stop referring to him as Ross. In his heart he knew he was a Chandler. Thankfully she takes this bit of information and only teases him slightly.

“Well,” she shrugs, sipping at her beer, “their loss, my gain. Right?”

Castiel relaxes, tipping his own beer in a mock salute. “Right.” At his side Dean grumbles, chugging his beer while turned towards the bar.

“What about you Dean?” Bela asks, chuckling, “Any former partners _ I _should know about?” Dean doesn’t hear her, flagging Joanna Beth down and asking for another drink. Bela’s laughter dies down, drowning it with her beer.

Castiel, however, wishes he answered. Having her bring it up makes Castiel realize that while Dean knows his own dating history, this is one area he doesn’t have much clarity in. Sure there was his old childhood crush, he thinks, but was there anyone else before he moved here? That he left behind in Kansas? His stomach turns at the thought, that maybe he doesn’t date in Lebanon because his heart belongs to another. It’s a painful way to live.

Meg claps her hands, pulling the others from their drinks. “Clarence!” she says, “Y’know, while we were waiting, I was telling Bela here about your work.”

“You were?”

“She was thinking about hiring you, too.”

“Is that true?”

Bela nods. “I feel like I could be making so much more money than I am, and would love to get the confirmation.”

Castiel picks at his label, frowning. “Well what is it you do?”

“I make jewelry.”

“_ Oh _?”

“They’re really good,” Meg chimes in, “she made these earrings that I’m wearing now.” She shows them off to him, the dangling silver hearts catching the dim lighting in the Roadhouse. Castiel makes the right noise of appreciation, dropping his mouth slightly to add to the act. “When we graduated I convinced her to open her business here in Lebanon, to add some more product to the flower shop.”

“Meg is great,” Bela says, “Giving me space to rent and to _ grow _as an artist.”

“Artist?” Dean checks back into the conversation, a new beer in hand, “You an artist?”

“I do jewelry,” she tells him, “and sometimes little dangly things that can hang off potted plants.”

“And… anything else?” he asks, brow raised, “y’know, anything that’s _ art _.”

Bela huffs, scowling at him. “What I do _ is _ art.”

“Oh…”

Their conversation for the night follows in a similar vein. Castiel, Meg, and Bela would discuss a topic, engaging in polite conversation. And then one of them would try and involve Dean. Only he’d spread his bad mood over the table and leave them all feeling particularly foul.

When Castiel brings up cooking, an attempt to draw Dean in over something he enjoys, it leads to an argument between him and Bela. “That’s probably the blandest thing I’ve ever heard of,” he snorts after his date’s thorough explanation of her grandmother’s turkey recipe.

Bela spluttered, nearly spilling her drink. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t back down. “No spices? The stuffing’s mostly grain? Did you even think of basting?”

Castiel cuts him off, very aware of how sharp Bela’s nails are. One more word and she can jump over the table and claw Dean’s pretty eyes out of her head. Her temper has been pushed to its limits already this evening, and Castiel knows she needs little reason to end their date. With how Dean acts it seems an early night is all he wants.

“I’m out,” Dean says, pushing his third bottle away. Standing, wobbling slightly, he moves towards the bar. “Gonna get another.”

Dean’s date crosses her arms, scowling. “I guess it’s true what they say, never act out your fantasies.”

“Dean’s probably nervous,” Castiel defends his friend, even though he agrees his behavior so far has been deplorable. Rudeness, aloofness, and a terrible chip on his shoulder. His attitude hadn’t only rubbed Bela the wrong way.

Meg tried salvaging things, but Dean at times was downright cruel to her. And him by extension. Pointing out Castiel’s faults to her in such a flippant manner that worried him; scared that in all those careless barbs a small amount of truth rested inside. 

“More like self-sabotaging,” Meg says, “I’ve never seen a worse wingman. He does know the point of the job’s to get you _ laid _ right?”

Castiel’s cheeks flush, and his crotch responds positively. His mind fills in blanks, using the suggestion Meg provided to construct a possible rendezvous. Ending the night collapsing into bed together, tearing each other’s clothes off and engaging in what Castiel all but gave up hope in ever doing again. It excites _ many _ parts of him.

Making sure Dean’s at the bar, he rubs a hand over his crotch before standing as well. “I need the restroom,” he says, “I’ll only be a moment.”

Inching his way through the crowd, Castiel finds the bathroom further in the back across from a set of pay phones. He opens the door to the men’s room and slips inside, breathing in a fresh, lemon scent.

Castiel walks over to the nearest mirror, gripping tight to the sink and staring at his reflection. The mass of bodies and foggy smoke left him worse for wear, sweat pooling at his neck and temple. A stray drop drips down the side of his face and over towards his chin. Running the faucet, Castiel cools himself off with a splash of water. Hoping more than his face relaxes from it.

“I shouldn’t even bother getting riled up,” Castiel mutters, “it’s all but impossible, now.”

All because of Dean.

Technically it’s your fault, his brain supplies him. Castiel convinced Dean to come along with him. Even though his friend has shown no interest in dating since they’ve met and is worked up about something he wasn’t sharing with Castiel.

A cocktail of anger, fear, and confusion bubbles inside Castiel’s stomach. He clutches at it, groaning from the pain that rocks through him.

Why did he invite Dean? Meg was clearly interested in him, and if it was only the two of them they would have returned to the same dynamic from the diner. At least he hoped. Maybe he invited Dean because his presence meant safety for Castiel. Gave him the courage to try, uncaring to the possibility he might fail. Breathed new life into him. The only other person to do that was Kelly, and for him to find another like that seemed unlikely.

Dean destroyed those odds.

Except tonight felt like a complete reversal of everything Dean stood for in his eyes. He wasn’t on a double date with his friend. The person sitting next to him was a stranger, and an ugly one at that. Castiel hates to think it, but the way he acted casts shadows to every other interaction they’ve had. Adds doubt to a man he had unshakeable confidence in.

The door opens up and he instinctively sees who it might be.

Meg watches him with a smirk.

“What are you doing in here?” he asks, head skewed to the side, “this is the men’s room.”

“Observant.” She stretches, shirt riding up enough her midriff peeks through, Castiel catching a glimpse of her belly button ring. “I could ask you the same question.”

“My answer would be the same.”

“Really?” she glides forward, closing the distance within seconds, “You didn’t come in here to… _ take care _ of a few things?”

His eyes widen, and his jaw audibly snaps shut. Castiel swallows. “This is a public space.”

“That’s the thrill of it, though,” she tells him, “almost being caught, trying to keep quiet…” Her hands trail down his chest, scratching him through the thin material. “Knowing one wrong person could ruin all your fun.”

Castiel glances at her lips and then drags his gaze upwards. “I thought you weren’t going to sleep with me?”

“Your _ friend _ tried to put me off,” she chuckles, “but I knew from the moment we met I wanted to ride you until you forgot your own name, _ Castiel _.”

He kisses her, Meg’s sultry whisper of his name breaking any illusion of control he had over himself. Hands on her face, he pushes her back up against a stall, humming as she claws at his back. “In the stall,” he huffs, “Not here.”

“Okay.”

Luckily the one they landed on was unoccupied and clean. Castiel locked the door, a task that grew in difficulty the longer Meg fondled his ass. “Can you give me a few seconds here,” he asks, “otherwise this’ll fly open.”

“Who cares,” she presses her chest against his back, “I’d let you have your way with me out on the pool table where everyone can see.”

He keens, hips seizing. “Stop,” he whispers, “or I won’t make it long enough for us to have fun.”

Spinning around he catches her in an embrace once more, tugging at her hair. They shift, bouncing up against the walls until Meg was up against the door. Panting while Castiel kissed his way down her chest. “This wasn’t originally low cut,” he asks, lips tracing the line of her cleavage, “was it?”

“No,” she answers, giggling, “My girls look too good in them… to not show off.”

“I agree.” His hand slides up her body and to her chest, thumb teasing at the nipple poking through the material. “Especially with your choice in undergarments.”

“You mean lack of,” Meg tells him, “bras are prisons. Women don’t need them.”

“They don’t need shirts either,” he argues, “so why do you wear one?”

“I knew it. You might look like a nerdy professor…” Meg drags his face so they’re staring at each other. “But deep down you’re a fucking horny man.”

“Guilty.”

Meg kisses him, hard enough Castiel knows her lipstick will leave streaks across his stubble. He returns it enthusiastically, pausing in his attempts at foreplay to enjoy the kiss.

It was a mistake. The more he stays grounded in the kiss the further he realizes there is nothing special about it. She kisses fantastically, nothing against Meg’s skills. But behind all the passion lies an emptiness he can’t begin to understand. There’s nothing more than the heat shared between them, and it shows itself in their kiss.

Castiel opens his eyes, brows knit tight in confusion. He thought there was a connection between them, but as his libido lurches towards satisfaction Castiel understands it was that guiding his decisions for the night.

But then Meg grabs his crotch, and any care to romance flushes away behind him. His dick thickens further and he arches into his touch. “You want to speed things up?” she asks, reaching into her back pocket for a condom and a packet of lube.

He chuckles. “Confident in tonight?”

“I was _ prepared _,” Meg clarifies, tearing into the condom packet with her teeth, “like every woman should be. Now are you going to drop your pants or will I have to put this condom on my fingers and finish this myself?”

“Give it to me.”

Castiel shoves his pants and boxers down, grabbing the condom from Meg’s hand and rolling it over his erection. She squirts the lube onto her palm, curling her fingers around his shaft and stroking him further. He seizes, head falling against her shoulder with a shudder.

“Has it been that long?” she asked, tapping at his head, “Come on, don’t waste the magic, sweetheart.”

Swallowing down his orgasm, he pushes off of her. His hands latch onto her button, opening it and dragging down her pants and panties.

“Take it all off,” she tells him.

“Really?”

“How else am I supposed to ride you?”

Castiel drops and helps her out of them, thankful the wide cuffs allow her boots to pass easily. When they’re gone and Meg’s lower half was laid before him, porcelain skin on display, Castiel gravitates towards her pussy.

“You just gonna stare?”

He answers her with a kiss to her privates, shocking her into silence. Forgetting his own leaking cock, Castiel uses his mouth to offer Meg a little taste of his experience. Flipping through his playbook, he spells out a few words that always worked to drive Kelly crazy. _ Evidence _ . _ Objection _ . _ Jurisdiction _ . Throwing in _ motorcycle _ and _ lily _ to cater to Meg’s interests.

Her boot slams on the ground, and he feels Meg’s hand clawing his scalp in pleasure. She drags him up, eyes shining with lust. “Fuck me before I come.”

“Okay.”

Lining up his cock, Castiel eases into Meg’s hole. His earlier attention towards it helps ease him into her, working with the lube. Pushing until he can’t no more Castiel waits and asks if she’s comfortable. “I will be if you’d keep moving,” she says, rolling her hips, “Don’t leave a girl hanging!”

Castiel listens. He backs up until his tip taps against her and then slams his dick into her. Meg gasps, head flung backwards and hitting the door. It doesn’t register to him, lost in the sensation of Meg squeezing tight around his dick. Her legs twitch, begging for purchase. Pausing slightly, Castiel grabs her ass and carries her. Pinned between him and the door, legs coiled around his waist, Meg can only wait as her orgasm builds inside her.

When Castiel comes, a shout bubbles up inside. So he hides his face in the crook of her neck, biting down on her shoulder to absorb the sound. She moans at the contact, uncaring to who might hear. His vision blacks out, body teetering as he shoots a load into the condom. As his soul returns to him his orgasm finishes while Meg reaches her own.

They stay like that, wrapped in each other, panting so loud it echoes.

“I didn’t think you had it in you old man,” Meg starts, kissing his cheek.

He helps her to the ground. “Age has its perks. Like experience.”

“I’ll say.”

They clean up in silence, Castiel peeling his condom off and dumping it in the toilet along with a few toilet paper squares. “That was a lot of fun,” he tells her, “thank you.”

“No need to thank me, Clarence. Pleasure was _ ours _.”

She kisses him, Castiel not needing to close his eyes. “You were so good I might be interested in another round… if you’re up to it.”

“I think I can pull it together.”

“Find me outside.”

Meg leaves the stall, Castiel staying there a few more moments to calm his racing heart. Sex in a bathroom stall, while intense in the moment, was something he never did. It was like Gabriel strangled the angel on his shoulder and fed the devil all the right words to turn him into putty. Still, if out of character, doesn’t mean Castiel regretted the act.

It provided much needed clarity and release.

Flushing the toilet, Castiel steps out to wash his hands. Unfortunately someone stands by the sink, gaping at his stall.

Dean never looked so pale. Green eyes were lifeless and dull, almost like any activity inside was shut off. His hand trembles frantically.

“Dean?” Castiel finds his voice, moving towards his friend. One second he reveled in his sexual freedom and the next all the regret he said didn’t exist pours over him like a waterfall. “Dean, how much did you see?”

Castiel reaches for his hand, hoping to soothe it. Instead it kicks Dean into gear. He jumps back as if burned, a sob wretched from his chest.

“Dean?”

He exits the bathroom, Castiel watching the door swinging with dread.

Immediately he follows after him, heart dropping to his intestines. In the bar proper he loses track of Dean. Stopping over by his table he sees no one there, his parka still draped over the chair. The brown leather jacket on the seat next to it, however, was gone.

Castiel needs to go. Spotting Meg over by the bar with Bela, he hurries over to them. In his haste, he picks up only parts of their conversation.

“...was it me? I tried everything… couldn’t get away fast enough… ugly?”

“Don’t… you’re _ beautiful _… stupid… horrible taste… probably a fag…”

“Meg,” he huffs, “Meg, I’m so sorry but I have to go.”

Her expression falters, but she doesn’t look surprised. “I figured.” Tipping her beer at him, she says, “Hit me up if you ever want to cut loose again.”

“...I’ll keep that in mind.”

Pushing through people towards the exit, Castiel blocks out everything that isn’t Dean. He stumbles out into the night. Gaze darting around the street, he searches for his friend. Castiel breaks into a run over towards where they parked earlier.

The sight of Dean leaning against his car sends a wave of relief so powerful his knees buckle. “Dean,” he pants, “Dean I… I thought you’d be gone.”

Dean shakes his head, a wry smirk on his lips. “So did I? But then I got here and… I don’t know.” He scuffs his shoe on the sidewalk. “You can go back to Meg, if you want. I’ll be fine.”

“I highly doubt that, Dean.” Castiel squints at him, “All night you’ve been acting strange so forgive me if I don’t believe you _ now _.” Dean’s expression falls, showing off the hurt Castiel knew was hiding there. “What happened in there?”

Biting his lip, Dean’s shoulders rise so high his neck disappears. He waits as long as he can for an answer. The haunting February chill makes it impossible. Castiel shudders, huddling in on himself. In his haste he only grabbed his jacket, and hadn’t put it on all this time.

“Look,” he says, “tell me, don’t tell me… I’m tired. So if you can drive me home?”

Dean nods. They enter his car silently, both too exhausted to argue. Castiel holds his parka close to his chest, resting his chin on it as he sulks.

On the way to his house Castiel thinks of every possible explanation to understand Dean’s behavior. No matter what he tried it didn’t leave him satisfied. Instead it compounded the unsettling feeling pulsing through him.

He doesn’t have enough time to think, Dean pulling up to his house.

Shifting into park, he clears his throat. “We’re here.”

“...I see.”

Another beat passes. “You gonna get out or-”

“I have something I need to say.” Dean stills, grip tightening on the steering wheel. “Look, _ clearly _ you are going through something, and I will respect your privacy if you don’t want to tell me. But it must be serious because it turned you into a _ total asshole _ . I asked my friend to come on a double date tonight and instead I was stuck with a _ jerk _.”

“I’m so sorry Cas,” Dean scowls, glaring through the windshield, “Sorry you had to put up with my sorry ass. No wonder you couldn’t wait to ditch me with Horny Mary Poppins so you could get your rocks off with Meg.”

“I didn’t plan for that!” he says, choking on a sob. “Dean, that’s not why I was upset. I was upset because I know you’re better than the man I saw tonight. And if whatever is bothering you means I have to see _ that _ again… I only want what’s best for you. I was worried. I need to know that you’re going to be okay.”

It’s a simple request. He laid everything that weight on his chest for the past few hours, and only asks for a one word answer. Hopefully all that’s been said breaks through to him.

Dean lets the silence drag on, Castiel unsure if he’ll answer. Finally, he looks at him.

His eyes have never looked so stunning, beautiful in their pain.

“I will be,” he tells him, voice gruff, “what I’m feeling… it’s my own fault. I put a lot of faith into something I shouldn’t have… convinced myself that maybe… maybe there was a chance for me to have everything. But I was wrong. My life isn’t meant to be complete. And I need to deal with it… _ Alone _.”

He turns away, hiding his face in the shadows of his cabin so Castiel can’t see when the tear dangling off the corner of his eye falls. The despair Dean cloaks himself in is palpable, more so now that Castiel can finally place a name to the feeling. All he wants to do is drag his friend out of it and wrap him in his arms.

But just as he asked of Dean and was given, Castiel must return the favor.

“When you’re done thinking you need to be alone,” Castiel whispers, one foot out the car, “Know my door will _ always _be open.”

Castiel walks towards his house, not waiting to watch Dean drive off. Hearing it is painful enough. Up his porch steps Castiel wonders what Dean meant with his final speech. Why would he think that he can’t have everything? The very being of his soul knows Dean deserves all the joy and splendor the world can give him.

“Because I can’t,” he sighs, “if we’ve learned _ anything _ from tonight.”

And because Castiel cannot catch a break tonight, he finds his living room filled with teenagers. They all stare at him, frozen, like he was a dinosaur and unable to see them. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he yells, “_ Claire! _”

His daughter peeks out from the kitchen, wincing. “Dad,” she starts, “why are you home so early.”

He doesn’t answer. Can’t look at her. “Clean this up,” he sighs, trudging towards the stairs, “you’ll be punished tomorrow. Until then carry with you the dread that anything can happen tomorrow.”

At least thinking up punishments for Claire should distract him from his Dean problems, he figures. It works for five minutes. The black hole in his chest caused by his friend was too powerful too escape. He doesn’t want to anyway.


	11. Love Sick

Dean taps away on his keyboard, glaring at the spreadsheet in front of him. He locked himself away to handle a few important matters, putting Max behind the counter to take orders and dole out milkshakes. However the numbers make no sense, and the longer he sits at his desk the more confused he becomes.

If only Cas were here, he thinks. The idea immediately sours his already terrible mood. Dean scowls, forcing the image of the other man from his mind. A hard task that steered him to abandoning his usual post in favor of doing work he cannot stand. At first he lied to himself about how spending time in his office was better than ignoring managerial duties. However the falsity melted away as it served to remind him more of Cas than any order for a strawberry milkshake.

There was no question, no doubt, and no way out. He screwed himself over. Skipped dinner and took his ass to bed, believing it was Cas palming his ass. When he finally turned to look it was Dean’s own green eyes that stared back.

He drags a hand over his face, spinning away from his computer. Instead he watched the room blur around him as he kept spinning, hoping that if he goes fast enough he could wake up in a world different than the one he already lives in. A world where he didn’t overreact and freak out. Where he could truly be himself. Where the boys he liked felt the same way about him.

His stomach lurches into his lungs, so he stops. Dean’s vision spins and he slams his head onto his desk. The pain from all that dampens the aching wound in his heart.

Someone knocks on his door.

“Who is it?” he asks, muffled.

They open it slightly, enough to peek in he guesses. “Dean,” Charlie says, “you busy?”

“Yeah,” Dean tells her, rolling over to expose his face. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of something right now?”

“Moping was in your schedule today?”

“If you were a business owner you’d understand. Anyway, what are you bothering me for?”

“You have a call waiting for you on the line,” she says, “it’s Cas.”

He shoots up, expression stricken. Charlie frowns in surprise, his reaction unexpected. Not wanting to draw further attention he settles himself, adopting a mask of indifference. “Oh? What does he want?”

Charlie shrugs. “He didn’t say. Wanted to speak with you, though.”

“Can’t you take a message? Say I’m not here?”

Fully coming into the room, Charlie puffs her chest up and rests her hands on her hips. “I am not your secretary! Stop whatever old man depression you’ve fallen into and go speak to your friend.”

Dean squints up at her. “You might not be my secretary but you’re still my employee.”

“You wouldn’t fire me. Otherwise you’d have no one to fix your computer when it freezes.”

Sighing, he breaks their contest and forfeits. “If I was twenty years younger I wouldn’t need you here. I’d understand all this technology, no problem.”

She scoffs, smirking. “You have a hard enough time as it is with machines that are from your _ own _ era, caveman.”

He doesn’t respond to that, shuffling past her and towards the phone. The receiver rests on the counter face-down next to the register. Dean picks it up, grip so tight it could break the plastic. “Dean here.”

A hoarse, wheezing noise whooshes through his ears followed by scratchy coughing. “Dean?” Cas asks, usual thick smoker’s growl coming off more like an emphysema patient’s wheezing, “Dean, it’s me, Castiel.”

“Yeah Charlie told me,” he says, “Good thing, too. You sound like shit.”

“I _ feel _ like shit.”

He rests his hip on the counter, wariness turning into concert. Reason fades to the vast corners of his mind as Dean’s heart beats double hearing Cas admit his pain. “What happened, man?”

“I’m pretty sure I caught a bug,” he tells Dean, “Maybe from the cold or… other things. I started feeling like this…” Cas quiets, trailing off. An oblivious glutton, Dean prompts him to finish his sentence. “The morning after Friday. After the… the Roadhouse.”

The night’s events crash into him like a speeding truck. He figured the memory wouldn’t play unprompted any longer after Sunday when he nursed a serious hangover from the bender the night before. Still he was powerless against triggers. Avoiding Cas to preserve his sanity so he didn’t go insane reliving one of the worst events since moving to Lebanon.

Bela pressing herself against him at the bar, trying to steal a kiss from him. Even after the horrible way he treated her. Unintentional, as his focus was more on making sure Meg saw Castiel in an awful light. An impossible task since the man looked amazing in any way. Like coming out of a bathroom stall, belt buckle unfastened and hair rucked so there was no question what he did in the stall. Seeing Meg exit was salt falling into his wound. The bathroom was supposed to free him from Bela’s pursuits, but he traded one hell for another.

And now Cas was sick. He should feel the slightest bit of glee knowing karma paid him back. Except none of it was Cas’s fault.

Dean chose to continue his crush on the other man. Cas didn’t force him.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says, “did you want some soup? We don’t deliver but I could have Garth run it out to you during his break-”

“No, no,” Castiel cuts him off, coughing some more, “I… I need you to do something else.”

“What?”

“Jack’s school called,” he starts, voice fading in and out as Dean shifts the receiver to his other ear, “Apparently his lunch didn’t agree with him and he threw up in one of the hallways.”

“No.”

A brief pause where Cas must have nodded. “They called maybe ten minutes ago saying he needed to be picked up. But as it is I can’t stand up without feeling faint…”

Dean rubs at his chin, understanding what Cas asks. “You’re in no condition to drive?”

“You can see my dilemma,” Cas sighs, “you know I wouldn’t trouble you if it was serious, Dean, but-” He hacks away from the line, Dean gagging at the sound. No doubt droplets of saliva flew from his efforts, and although it’s impossible he imagines them seeping through the line and over to him.

“But this is serious,” Dean says.

“Exactly.”

He sighs, dropping his head to his chest. Alarms ring and sirens blare at him, all pointing out how horrible an idea it is. Not only because of the germs, but bringing Jack home meant going in and speaking with Cas. Once past his front door an unlimited amount of possibilities open up to how events may unfold. All except one. A kiss of gratitude for returning his son, even with lips cold and clammy from sickness, is a long shot.

Almost unlimited.

The part of Dean that hears how wrecked Cas sounds and thinks back to times when a younger Sam was sick takes over. His heart bounces back in strength to suffocate any reason within his decisions. Dean makes his peace with the mistake he chooses.

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll go pick Jack up,” he tells Cas, “that way you only have to worry about yourself for the time being.”

“Thank you, Dean, thank you,” Cas says, “I’ll call the school and let them know. If I can’t answer the door, there’s a key in one of those fake rocks by the porch.” Dean nods bashfully, cheeks flushing though he wills them to control themselves.

“It’s no problem, Cas,” Dean sighs, “you go and take it easy. I’ll be round to drop Jack off so you two can be sick together… father and son… yeah…” Unsure how to end their conversation, Dean hangs the phone up without another word. Then he brings the phone’s receiver to his face and hits himself with it.

Three whacks in Charlie prys it from his hands. “What the hell?” she asks, “What’s wrong?”

“Cas is sick.”

“And _ this _ is an appropriate response why?” Charlie shakes the phone at him before slamming it back down onto its base. “Because it means he’s not coming in today?”

“No,” he says, “because I’m an idiot and agreed to do something I shouldn’t.” He doesn’t explain further, retreating back to his office for his jacket. Charlie follows him, though, clinging to his belt loops.

“What? What’re you talking about?” She digs in her heels, distracting Benny and Garth from their duties. “Where are you going?”

He stops, his waitress slamming into his back. Dean spins on his heel, kneading at a forming headache. “You’re really pushing the limits of our boss-employee relationship, today.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t acting so strange!” she argues, stomping her foot. “Now are you going to tell me what it is you two talked about and why that makes you more of an idiot than you’re being right now?” Then, in a smaller voice, she asks, “Is this about the double date you guys went on?”

His temple flares with pain, Cas’s shocked face in the bathroom coming to mind. Charlie, the innocent in all this, of course would tread over a landmine without realizing. She was there when Cas proposed the idea, and then spent the entire day teasing him about it. Suggesting exactly who Meg might set him up with. It didn’t add to his already deflated mood. But it’s not like he could have told her no matter who Meg brought it was going nowhere since who he really wanted to be with was not interested.

“It’s not…” he tells her, unable to meet her gaze, “he needs me to get Jack from school, cause the kid’s sick, too.”

“That sucks but not so out of your way. Why the tantrum though?”

“Because then I have to see Cas,” he confesses, the bottled angst too forceful to contain. “And we didn’t exactly part on the best terms after the… the _ thing _.” He can’t say date. It wasn’t one, Dean actually agreeing to come along as Cas unknowingly trod on his heart. Again the blame lies on his own poor decision making.

Falling for straight guys always leads to heartbreak.

Charlie offers sympathy for the first time today. “You guys get into a fight?”

“Something like that?”

“Was she ugly?” she asks, “Forced you to sit with someone annoying while he flirted with Meg the whole night? Did _ you _ flirt with Meg?”

Charlie, accidentally, reminds him why honesty will never work for him. Letting his burdens and troubles go mean nothing if they bounce off the person he tells them to because of misunderstandings. Dean swallows down the bile of feelings stuck in his throat and changes topics. “Watch the front while I’m back,” he says, “And, like always, Benny’s in charge.”

He rushes out of Colette’s so no one can ask him any more questions. All he wants is to find Jack, bring him to Cas, drive around town for awhile and then lock himself in his office again.

Dean switches cassettes, choosing more dulcet tones for his journey. Van Morrison croons from his speakers, his earthy voice attempting to lull Dean’s heart into a normal beating pattern. When he feels more in control of himself he starts the engine and hits the pedal.

Two songs in Dean reaches Jack’s school. He parks in the front by the steps, taking two of them at a time. At the top he tries the door, only to find it locked. Shocked but not deterred, he searches for a doorbell. There were none save a tiny intercom, so he presses that.

“Hello?” A crackly voice asks him, Dean wincing at the horrible static.

“Hi,” he speaks into it, “I’m here to pick Jack Novak up? Dean Winchester?” Dean adds, after a beat, “His dad, Castiel, said he called?”

“One moment.” Dean stands, hunched over, waiting for the intercom to light up again. It does as his back twinges with pain. “Come in please.” A shrieking, one-note bell echoes from the speaker, and Dean hears a lock sliding away. The door opens.

He finds the office easy, Jack inside on one of those plastic little chairs. His face, pale and flushed with sickness, still lights up when he sees Dean roll in. Jack waves at him with all the strength he has. Dean curls his fingers in a tinier reply, more awed at his reaction to do more.

The women behind the desk raises her brow. “Dean Winchester?”

“Yep,” he looks to her nameplate, “Picking Jack up, Ms. Cortese.”

Rolling her eyes, she hands him a clipboard and a pen pulled from behind her ear. “Sign your name here, date it, and the reason you’re pulling Jack from school.”

“That’s it?”

“Unfortunately the guy who collects urine samples only comes in on Tuesdays.”

Biting his tongue, Dean fills out the necessary information and hands the clipboard back to her along with a courteous nod. “Have a nice day.”

“Thanks.”

Leaving her he moves over to Jack, dialing up his brightest smile. “I heard you weren’t feeling good?”

Jack shakes his head, mirroring Dean’s expression albeit shakier. “My breakfast wanted out,” he tells Dean, “I couldn’t stop it.”

“Hey, it’s all right. Better out your mouth than anywhere else…” He takes Jack’s bag from him, hitching it over his own shoulder. “Come on, your dad’s waiting for you back at home.”

“Okay.”

Jack slides off the chair, rocking into Dean’s side. Dean frowns, placing a hand over Jack’s forehead. He recoils with a sigh. “Did the nurse give you any Tylenol?”

“Yes. two of them. I was supposed to tell dad when I saw him.”

“Looks like it hasn’t hit yet,” Dean tells him, “Stay close by me and don’t be afraid to grab on if you get dizzy okay?” He waits for Jack’s nod before continuing their exit. Slowly, though, so Jack can keep up with him

They’re nearing the doors when he hears a set of footsteps from behind. Glancing behind he spots Missouri Moseley walking towards them.

Dean stiffens on instinct. As she nears he begs his muscles to unlock, but they don’t listen. They’ve done it too many times over the years to stop. He wishes this wasn’t the response he had to her presence, since Dean was fond of the older woman. She was one of the first townspeople to make him and Sam feel truly welcome, sitting with them for an entire day recounting tales of Henry to them. Living only a block away she had many of them.

Except when they parted she stared at Dean, in a way that felt like he was an egg and she cracked him open against a frying pan. Missouri reached over and squeezed his hand, smiling softly. “You’re safe here, Dean,” she said, “You can rest. You can _ breathe _.”

He couldn’t once the door was closed. Sam spent the rest of the night calming him down from his panic attack. There was no proof Missouri knew about him or his heart, but that didn’t matter to the thick cloud of fear hanging over him back then.

While the fog of terror faded to a light mist now, it doesn't mean he can lower his hackles so easily around her.

“Dean, Jack,” she greets, papers in hand, “it’s a good thing you’re still here.”

“Is that so?”

Missouri nods, kneeling down to hand Jack the stack she carries. “You’re going to need this,” she tells him, “since I won’t be seeing you until Monday.”

Dean frowns. “You sure about that?”

“As sure as I am about most things,” she says, rising, “Like I’m sure you and Castiel will work through whatever is troubling you two.”

He pales, grip on Jack’s bag strap tightening. “What?” Dean chokes out.

“Have a little faith Dean,” Missouri smirks, “It might surprise you, but sometimes life _can_ be everything you want it to be.” She leaves him with that, heading back to her class. “Feel better, Jack. And pass my wishes on to your daddy!”

They watch her disappear around the corner, Dean too shocked to move. How she knew about the trouble lurking within Dean and Castiel’s relationship was freaky, and only served to add more credence to his theories.

“Dean?” Jack tugs at his hand, breaking him from his daze, “Dean, can we please go?”

“Right… right…” Dean leads Jack out of the school, hands still together until they reach his car. Helping Jack into Baby, Dean buckles him up and places his backpack at his feet. “I’m going to go real slow okay? If your stomach feels like it did when you hurled let me know, then I’ll pull over and you can hack into the street.” Jack nods, and Dean heads to his seat.

When he starts the engine his speakers jolt to life. The music, while more tame than most of his collection, was still too loud for others. Dean turns it down, wincing at Jack. “Forgot about that. You want me to keep it on, or change it to something else?”

Jack shakes his head. “My head hurts…”

“Silence. Got it.”

Dean focuses on driving, going twenty miles under the speed limit as he brings Jack back to the safety of his home. Making smooth turns and slowing down for yellow lights even if he was a block away. Every so often he would check his rear view mirror, find Jack with his eyes closed and head pressed against the window. If he were a stranger looking in he would think Dean was driving with his sleepy son. It’s a nice fantasy, easier to think about then any with Jack’s true father.

They’re stalled over at a stop sign a few blocks away from Castiel’s when he hears stirring. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you and dad fighting?”

He whips around to gape at Jack, schooling his shocked features when faced with the younger boy’s innocent curiosity. “We’re… we’re not fighting,” he starts.

Jack frowns, crossing his arms. “Then what did Miss Moseley mean back at school?”

Internally he curses Missouri Moseley. Externally he does nothing except face the road and go when the road clears. He taps at his wheel, hoping Jack drops it.

“Dean?” he asks again, “why don’t you want to tell me?”

Persistent, Dean thinks, why did he have to be persistent? Dean makes the mistake of taking one last look in his rearview and catching Jack’s puppy pout. He grits his teeth. Sam has competition.

“Okay so we’re fighting,” Dean admits, “maybe… I, I’m not really sure. All I _ do _ know is that we didn’t really part on okay terms. I… I was a real jerk.”

“So that’s why dad looked so upset,” Jack says.

“What?”

“He was really tired all weekend,” he explains, “I thought it was only because of his cold but dad said he was feeling okay on Saturday.”

The knife he left in his heart twists further, now learning the effect his actions had on Cas. “Really?”

“He was a little down,” Jack remembers, “didn’t get changed out of his pj’s. And he carried around his coffee mug _ all day _. He only does that when he’s not feeling good.

“Oh…”

“What happened?”

Dean can’t tell Jack that he was an ass to Cas. How he heard his father have sex with a woman in a bathroom stall, rooted to the spot once he realized who it was. That the entire night was spent collecting the shards of his heart and grinding them into his palm. All he can say is, “Adult things.”  
Jack hums, like that was all he needed. “Adult things are stupid,” Jack tells him, “Why can’t you two make up?”

He wonders the same thing. “I don’t know, Jack. Sometimes you grow up and life gets… _ complicated _.”

“But if you apologize and promise you won’t do it again, he’ll forgive you!” Jack encourages him, “Claire does it all the time and it works. Although she doesn’t really keep her promise…”

Dean chuckles. “I wish it were that easy…” he sighs; wishing some of Jack’s optimism would rub off on him. He could tell Cas that he got over himself since Friday and that he wouldn’t bring around the _ other _ him that skulked around the Roadhouse ever again. Except his heart still aches for him. Dean couldn’t be sure his jealousy and hurt won’t rear back if Cas hangs around Meg. And by how happy they looked and _ sounded _, that could be a very large possibility.

Until his crush fades he needs to limit his time with Cas.

“It’ll take a long while,” he says to Jack, ending the conversation. They arrived at his house, and Dean spent too long away from Colette’s. Once Jack was under Cas’s supervision he could go back and lick his wounds.

* * *

Dean stood over the stove, stirring the pot of broth and thinking over how much of an idiot he was. Castiel and Jack rested in the other room, curled up on the couch under blankets. The sound of the television so loud Dean could hear it from the kitchen. The comedy stylings of the Warner Brothers, and their sister Dot, couldn’t distract from the spiral he was locked in.

It started when he walked Jack to the door, pausing only to retrieve the key under the fake rock. “Let’s not disturb your dad too much,” he told Jack, “might be sleeping.”

Jack nodded, finger over his curled lips.

They slowly opened the door, peeking inside. Laughter came from the living room so they headed towards it.

Cas laid on the couch in a rich, blue bathrobe that exposed his tanned chest. Dean nearly fainted at the sight until common sense kicked in and he noticed the unhealthy sheen of it and how his body shivered. His eyes were closed, but his lip trembled.

“Oh no…”

Jack came over, poking his father. “Dad? Dad, I’m home…”

Wrenching one eye open, Cas breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked, “you shouldn’t have caught this…”

“It’s okay,” Jack shrugged, “I get to miss school…”

“Dean,” he called to him, “Dean, are you here?”

He followed Jack’s path, sitting on the arm of the couch where Cas’s feet were. “I’m here, Cas,” he said, frowning, “you’re not looking too hot.”

“I feel it,” Cas groaned, “too warm…” Shaky hands crawled towards the knot of his bathrobe, Cas tugging it loose. Dean stopped him, pulling his hands away.

“No,” he told Cas, “you need to bundle up.” Raking his gaze over Cas’s body again he shook his head. “How the hell did this happen, Cas?”

Cas stuttered a laugh. “I don’t know. I never went to medical school. Ask my mother about it it’s one of her greatest regrets.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “At least you didn’t lose your sense of humor.” He turned to Jack, “Why don’t you change out of those clothes and put something cozy on, okay? Who knows what might have gotten on you.” Jack nodded, leaving them alone. “How bad is it, Cas? Scale of one to ten.”

“Only one scale?” Cas repeated, “I’d need at least five _ more _.”

The pitiful chuckle from Cas’s congested chest that followed his joke tugged on Dean’s heartstrings. Staring down at the shell of his crush wiped away any lingering awkwardness that was between them. It’s hard to think about embarrassment and hurt feelings when surrounded by so many used tissues. As if autumn hit a tissue forest.

“Do you need anything?” Such a loaded question that could ask of Dean something he can’t give. When it comes to Cas, however, he finds himself willing to move mountains.

Cas sighed, leaning back on a pillow. “No, I’ve already troubled you enough. Bringing Jack here was all I needed. I can handle it from here.”

“Cas,” Dean frowned, “you don’t look like you can handle a _ butterfly _ in this state.”

“I won’t trouble you anymore Dean.”

“It’s no trouble, really -”

“You don’t have to do this, Dean.”

Dean quieted, his body tensing. “...Do what?”

“This,” Cas repeated in a hoarse whisper, “Putting others before yourself. I know I may ask too much of you, and if you need your space I should give it to you. My apologies that I didn’t realize sooner. It’s _ okay _ for you to leave.”

He bit his lip, Cas’s words scraping at his skin. It was clear Friday night still hung over them, and their solutions were quite similar. Space. As much as they needed until the nastiness of that evening faded. Cas may have gotten his reasoning wrong but why should Dean correct him. It meant he could leave with no guilt about how he found the other man.

Except he _ would _ still feel it. Dean sighed, rising. “What’s important is that you get better. You and Jack. Neither of you are in any shape to be alone.”

Cas fought him. “I mean it Dean. I’m not some invalid who cannot handle a simple cold.”

Dean matched his stubbornness. “Dammit, Cas, weren’t you the one who said we do things for the people we care about? That we show up? Well here _ I _ am, showing up. Let me do _ this _ for you.”

The outburst sent them both back to their respective corners. Dean hadn’t meant to blurt that out, but the damage was done. He could see the information spreading throughout Cas. Watched his gaze turn soft and shoulders loosen.

Jack chose to return then, in pajamas with cartoon trucks on them. “Now what?” he asked.

Dean gladly took the chance to change topics. “You sit here with your father while I make you two some soup.” Cas tried to argue but he ignored him and carried on into the kitchen. There was soup to make.

Although when digging through the pantry for canned tomatoes Dean realized he needed to make a phone call. Charlie picked up, asking where he was and when he would be coming back. Then she threw a fit after he explained his choice to stay and look after the Novaks. “Cas is in no shape to do this, Charlie. I _ have _ to do this.”

“Why don’t you call his family? Aren’t they _ required _ to take care of him.”

He hung up on her to begin cooking, confident she would handle everything and that he will hear about it tomorrow. Unless neither Cas nor Jack’s conditions improved, than it might be the first vacation he’d have taken since reopening Colette’s.

If that were the case then there was one other phone call to make.

Dean steps away from the stove and back over to place another call, dialing the number for the sheriff's department. “Hey Donna,” he greeted, mustering a smile, “Yeah, was hoping you could take a message… walking through the doors now? _ Perfect timing _… might as well, he’ll only re-dial the second I hang up.” Dean waits as Donna hands Sam the phone, hoping he’s in a good mood.

“Dean,” Sam starts, tone curt and pitched. He bites his lip, aware of how the universe struck at him for his poor decision making. “What do you want?”

“Calling to let you know that I might not be home tonight.”

Sam pauses. “Something wrong at the diner?”

“Not exactly…”

He sighs, Dean imaging him tugging at the strands that curled at his shoulder. “Can you cut the bullshit and tell me what it is?” he hisses.

Preparing himself for the tidal wave of overprotectiveness about to pour through the line, Dean sets his shoulders and tightens his grip on the receiver. “Cas is sick, and so is Jack,” he rushes out, “like _ really _ sick. So I’m gonna make sure they’re all right…”

“Dean!” Sam growls into the phone, “Are you for real? Did you forget what happened on Friday already?”

“Oh come on,” he sighs, rubbing his chin, “it wasn’t that bad…”

“Maybe you don’t remember because you were totally _ out _ of it this weekend,” Sam tells him, “either from the bottle of whiskey I had to pry from your hands or the headache you bitched about all Sunday-”

“Why’re you getting so bent out of shape from this,” Dean cut him off, “you like Cas. I’m only being _ nice _.”

Sam breathes deep, Dean bracing for the blow back. “Cas is a good guy, but I’m not a fan of anyone who hurts my brother -”

“He didn’t do anything,” he defends the other man, “It’s not like Cas knew that I… _ you know _.”

“Exactly!” his brother continues, undeterred, “It was all you. You got too attached, maybe because you spend all your time with him?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah… listen if I had the choice I’d be as far away as possible from his stupid, pretty… _ everything _ . But like I said he and Jack are _ seriously _ sick and… you know me.”

“I do,” Sam sighs over the line, “that’s what makes me even _ less _ happy. Isn’t there _ anyone _ else who could be doing this?”

“Like who?”

“His _ family _ ?” Sam asks. When Dean stays silent his brother’s tone drifts further into annoyance. “ _ Seriously _?” Dean holds his tongue, debating whether hanging up would prove successful twice in one day. He thinks better of it. Charlie can’t do anything to him of consequence, whereas Sam lives with him. Sam carries on over his reluctance. “You did all this and didn’t even think… why didn’t Cas call them? Did he tell you-”

“I don’t know,” he tells Sam, rushing the words out, “I don’t - I don’t know, okay? Cas didn’t mention them and I… I was afraid to ask.”

“Don’t be,” Sam says, “you shouldn’t have to suffer if you don’t have to. Finish up whatever it is you’re doing and see if Cas can get someone else to swing by for him, okay?”

“...Okay.”

They stay on the line, neither willing to part with the energy so charged between them. “Dean,” Sam says, “I’m only thinking of what’s best for -”

“Yeah, yeah,” Dean talks over him, smirking, “I thought that was my job, though. Been doing it since you were born.”

“Then you shouldn’t have any problem doing it for yourself.”

“You’d think.”

“Tell Cas and Jack I hope they feel better,” Sam trails off, “And don’t catch what they have. Because we both know who’s going to be caring after _ your _ sorry ass if you get sick.”

“Please, I have the best damn immune system,” Dean scoffs, “you’re worried I might get you sick and then I’d have to deal with you and your _ whining _ . And your _ damn dehumidifier _ -”

“Whatever, jerk,” Sam cuts him off, “I gotta go.” The line closes, Dean huffing a ‘bitch’ into the dial tone.

He hangs the receiver back where he found it, returning to the soup. Stirring it once more Dean deems it fit for the Novaks. Dean grabs three bowls from the nearest cabinet and pours three servings of the meal. Since I can’t remember when I last ate, he thinks, I’ll have some, too. Then, after finding some spoons and a sleeve of crackers as well as pouring some water for his patients, Dean carries it all on a large tray.

Dean shuffles into the room, wearing a shaky smile while delicately balancing everything. He notices Cas shift under his pile and stops to glare at him. “Stay,” he orders, “I have this.”

Slowly, Dean reaches the coffee table. Placing the tray down, he hands the bowls to the Novaks. “I hope you like it,” he says, “it’s a Winchester family recipe. My mom used to make this for me when she was sick… when she could, at least. Said _ her _ mom would do the same, and when we had the ingredients at home I’d make this for Sammy…” Clearing his throat, he rubs at his neck. “It’s tomato and rice, I hope you don’t mind.”

“It smells lovely, Dean,” Cas says, eyes dulled by sickness yet somehow still shiny, “Thank you.” Then he blows on his spoon and sips, humming at the taste. Dean blushes, chest warming from the sound.

“Dean!” Jack cries, “Crackers!”

“Crackers-oh!” Dean hurriedly opens the sleeve and lays it between the two of them. “Let me know if you need your water, too.” He picks up his own bowl and takes a spoonful, delighting in his own skills. It’s been awhile since he made this, and enjoys the comfort his mother’s simple recipe brings.

He hears crunching and glances over to see Jack crushing a few crackers into the soup and stirring them in. Dean gapes at that, watching the younger boy happily eat the doctored soup.

Cas chuckles, drawing Dean’s focus. “It’s something he picked up from Kelly,” he explains, “she’d do it all the time whenever eating soup. Once she managed to drop a few oyster crackers into her bowl before the waiter had time to put it down.” Sighing, Cas stirs his spoon lazily. “She’d make soup, too, when we were sick. Said being sick made soup all the better.”

The warmth suddenly cools, melting away into an odd hollowness. Ignoring the feeling, Dean decides to follow Cas’s train of thought. Even if it makes him feel cold. “Moms and soups… funny how one can’t exist without the other, right?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sayin’,” Dean starts, thinking back to what Sam mentioned, “all moms probably have their own special little twist on soup. Mine would add a dash of tabasco to clear things out… did your mom do something like that?”

Cas quiets as he tries to answer Dean’s answer, the television and Jack’s slurping overpowering the lull. “No,” he tells him, “I’m pretty sure all my mom did was heat up some Campbell’s.”

“Not a fan of that, then?” he asks, “Is that why you called me instead of her when you realized you were sick?” It’s too accusational, Dean wincing after saying it. Cas, startled, drops his spoon in his soup. “I mean,” Dean continues, salvaging the conversation, “Or was she busy? Not that you - not that I thought…”

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“I… I completely forgot.”

“What?”

Cas looks at his bowl, staring deep into it with the tiniest frown Dean has seen mar Cas’s perfect face. “After the school called me about Jack I… I had such a pounding headache and, in all that confusion, I… I didn’t think to ask anyone else.” He turns to Dean, awed. “I needed someone to get Jack and I asked myself who do I trust to do that and you were the first person to come to mind.”

Dean nearly flings his soup at Cas. Unfair comes to mind, at how Cas can hook up with Meg in a bar’s bathroom and then say a sentence so powerful Dean’s heart bruises from impact. It takes nearly all his strength to control the butterflies jittering across his body, to smile, nod, and say, “That means a lot to me Cas.” More than Cas can know.

The full weight of Cas’s words sinks heavily onto Dean’s shoulders and he slouches into the armchair. Visions of himself from Friday night come to mind, dancing across his vision as a reminder of how undeserved Cas’s trust is. I really am the worst, he realizes, taking all my issues out on a guy like Cas… all because _ I _ misread our relationship.

Sighing, Dean runs a hand across his face. He’s an _ awful _ friend.

“Is something the matter Dean?”

He turns to Cas, breath catching at the concern directed at him. In that moment he wants to put forth all that burdens his heart. How sorry he is for Friday, for being a bad friend, for tainting every good deed between them with his feelings. That he would understand it if Cas decides to give up on Dean if he learned the truth, no matter how heartbroken he’d be.

But he doesn’t. Jack giggles and snaps him from his trance. “Nothin’,” he says, “just I’ve seen this one before.” Blaming television isn’t inventive and never works, but it’s all Dean has.

Cas doesn’t buy it. Thankfully he doesn’t press the matter further, leaning into his nest and sipping more at his soup. 

They stay like that, wrapped in their own little worlds. A few times Dean breaks from his inner turmoil to help them; taking empty bowls, refilling empty glasses, and on Cas’s suggestion grabs some medicine from the cabinet near the sink for them. Cas dry swallows his pills while Dean measures the plastic shot cup for Jack to drink from. He gags at the taste, but doesn’t do much.

It’s another half-hour of cartoons before anything changes. Dean finally tunes out the darkness swirling around his head in favor of following the storyline of the show on the television. Somehow watching gargoyles flying around New York City made him feel better. As the leader, Goliath, looks ready to descend into some action Dean hears a soft call from nearby, and then a yawn.

Jack leans on his father’s shoulder, eyes barely able to stay open. “Dean,” he says again, “I’m tired.”

Cas glances down at his son, smiling. “Can you make it up the stairs on your own?” His son shakes his head, using the momentum to snuggle deeper into his blankets. Sighing, Cas turns to Dean. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“Not at all.” Dean finally lets go of his bowl, holding onto it only so his hands didn’t wring themselves into oblivion. Tucking one of them under Jack’s legs and the other at his back, Dean lifts him until the younger boy is safely against his chest. “Which room’s his?”

“First door on the left.”

“Gotcha.”

Dean moves softly, climbing the steps so as not to wake Jack. He dozes easily in Dean’s arms, rocked into slumber. When Dean makes the switch and tucks Jack into bed he doesn’t wake, fully asleep by the time they entered his room.

He moves to leave when Dean realizes his legs are rooted to the floor. Instead of putting distance between him and Jack he kneels down to be closer. Dean reaches out and brushes a few stray hairs that fell across the boy’s face, stuck to it from sweat. A smile blossoms across Dean’s face as he whispers, “Night, kid.”

The longer he stares the creepier he knows he looks. But Dean has no power against the force keeping him by Jack’s side. It whispers silly lies that he can’t deny, about Jack and Claire and Cas and Dean. He leans into these stories. Wished they were true.

But he glances away for a brief second, eyes landing on a nearby photo. It’s from years ago when Jack was only a baby. Nestled in the loving arms of his mother. Because he isn’t Dean’s son - not really.

It all crashes down around him and the feelings from Friday return stronger than ever. Dean pulls back, hissing. “I gotta stop doin’ this,” he mutters, leaving Jack’s room, “Why can’t I stop? What’s _ wrong _ with me?”

Dean descends the staircase with a heavy heart, footsteps pounding on each step. When he reaches the bottom Dean tugs on a false mask of cheer; hoping to disarm Castiel’s questioning stare. “All nice and cozy up there,” Dean tells him, shifting on his feet, trying to come up with something to say. “He’s got a real nice room up there. Better than mine when I was his age…” His nails dig into his palm, regretting even mentioning his own childhood.

“I try not to spoil my children,” Cas says, “but I’m only human. You should’ve peeked into Claire’s room - she has her own TV.”

He nods, frowning at the mention of her. “Speaking of, where is Claire? Figured she’d probably be home now, wouldn’t she?”

Cas rolls his eyes, sinking deeper into the couch. “She won’t be home tonight.”

“Really?”

“After I called you to let you know what was happening I called her school so she would know not to pick up Jack,” Cas told him, smirking as best he could, “However I had only begun convalescing in here when the phone rang again. It was Claire. She said she’d be spending the night at Alex’s.”

“You didn’t fight her?”

“With what strength? Besides, it’s better for her if she stayed away so I have at least one healthy kid.”

“Yeah, can’t imagine three Novak’s here sick,” Dean shrugs, “it’d be a handful…”

Cas looks up at him, head skewed to the side. Inside Dean’s chest his heart taps a frantic rhythm against his ribs, cheeks tinting red from the simple act. He tries to say grounded in the present, however, since he knows the gesture means the other man is thinking.

“You know,” Cas starts, “I can manage from here, if you want to leave. Or if you still think I can’t handle myself I’m sure one of my family members can come over and relieve you of -”

“No.”

“What?”

A voice screams at him to slip into the life preserver Cas tossed at him. But Dean ignores it in favor of sinking deeper into the ocean of his own choosing. He pushes his tongue against the side of his cheek, not looking at Cas. “No,” he says, “you don’t have to do that. I can stay here.”

“Dean…”

“It’s not that,” he sighs, squeezing his eyes shut. “It’s not that,” he tries again, “that I don’t think you can’t take care of yourself or Jack… I… I want to be here. To show that I _ can _ be here… and not let _ stuff _ get in the way of it.” It’s as close as he gets to mentioning Friday night to Cas.

Cas understands nonetheless. “Dean,” he says, “your _ stuff _ should have more precedence over the needs of others… especially if it causes you distress. I’m sorry that I didn’t realize it sooner.”

“No, I’m sorry, Cas!” His cheeks burn at the admission, and his legs buckle. Dean moves to take a seat, falling short of the chair and instead settling where Jack was on the couch. Cas reaches out to grab at his shoulder and Dean jolts at the touch. He doesn’t lean away from it. “I… I acted like a big old fool. And fuck you had every right to call me out on my bullshit but you didn’t do just that, you… you were more concerned about _ why _ I was doing that and… and I almost ruined everything by acting like a child. I felt awful then, I feel awful now. Please, let me do this…”

Cas squeezes his shoulder and Dean shudders from it. “You don’t have to play nurse to me and my son to earn my forgiveness,” he tells him, “You’ve already done so by showing how much remorse you have for your actions. I… I only wish that as I have shared my own troubles you would feel comfortable doing the same.”

Dean curls in on himself, biting his lip. “It’s not that I don’t feel comfortable with you Cas. I… I’m more comfortable with you than most people in my life. But this I… it’s not something you’ll understand. Hell, it’s not even something _ Sam _ can. It sucks that I have to go through this alone but I do.” His jaw stiffens, and Dean finally musters the willpower to meet Cas’s eyes. “Although I won’t lie to you, not anymore. If I’m feeling like shit from it I’ll let you know. Because I shouldn’t have let it get between me and people that I - uh… I care about.”

It’s a frightening moment. Hours pass inside his jumbled stomach as he waits for Cas’s reply. He walked a tightrope, making sure he said enough to explain himself to Cas without giving too much away. His palms soak the knees of his jeans, and a stone rests in his throat.

“That’s all I can ask for, can’t I?” Cas chuckles, shaking his head. “While I am upset I can’t help ease your burdens I should be glad that you’re making these allowances… since they must be some you’ve never had to make before, right?”

Dean nods. “You’d be the first?”

“So special,” he sighs, “Thank you for… all of that. You don’t know how frightened I was that this small hiccup could blow itself into a huge disaster.”

The admittance to it draws a tired chuckle from Dean. A bright dislodges from his lungs and he breathes a bit easier. “Same. Wasn’t sure you’d be such a fan of me after I ruined any chance you had with Meg.”

Cas hums, thumb brushing against the material of Dean’s shirt. “You didn’t ruin anything, Dean. There wasn’t much there to ruin.”

“What?”

“Sure, we had some fun but… when we kissed, I didn’t really _ feel _ anything.” Cas glances away, smiling. “Well, that’s not true, is it. I felt many things… _ good _ things… things I haven’t felt in a while and missed greatly… but not what I was hoping.”

Dean brushes off all the unimportant layers and focuses on the crux of what Cas said. “What did you _ want _ to feel?”

“A connection,” he says, “Something _ beyond _ the heat. Meg was a great girl but I didn’t see anything going further than the bathroom stall for her and I… While that’s all well and good for some people that’s not what _ I _want.”

His mouth is dry and he can’t do a thing to fix it. “What _ do _ you want?”

“I’m not sure,” Cas tells him, frowning, “I want… I want a relationship. You’d think I’d have enough of them given I’ve been divorced twice but… I love being _ in love _ . Having someone to wake up next to in the morning. Someone who can sit with me and talk about nothing and everything at once. Someone who makes me feel _ special _ and I do the same for them.”

He literally said I made him feel special, Dean thinks, and then he mentions this? His eyes widen as the dots connect themselves in his head.

“Maybe I’m asking for too much, though,” Cas says, “I have a lot going for me as it is. A healthy family, a good friend like you… I think I may have maxed out all my luck.” He lets his hand slip from Dean’s shoulder, the reprieve short since Cas’s head drops onto it. “All this introspection leaves me feeling tired. You don’t mind if I close my eyes for a few minutes, do you?”

Finding his voice is a struggle. When Dean does he meeks out a small “no”. Cas takes it and presses himself further into Dean’s side.

“This is nice,” Cas admits, slowly and sleepily, “maybe I don’t need romance… all I need is this.” Dean chokes on his heart. “I’m glad we can be here for each other…” He drifts off after that, softly snuffling into Dean’s shoulder.

Dean watches this all happen with an awed expression. He repeats the last few moments, committing every last detail to memory. Then, when he feels confident enough, he pinches his thigh to make sure he wasn’t the one sleeping on Cas’s couch.

He’s awake, and Cas still said what he did.

Cas is straight, he reminds himself, when he said this he obviously meant friendship. But then Cas twitches in his sleep, and Dean finds himself snuffing out the negative voices swarming like gnats overhead. He curls an arm around Cas, careful not to wake him, and begins petting his hair. The dark tufts of it are soft in his hand, and each stroke leaves him wishing for time to freeze.

After one pet, where Dean lets his fingers rake through Cas’s bangs and brush against his temple, Cas murmurs into Dean’s armpit. He chuckles and hugs him closer. “All I need is this, too, Cas,” he drawls, “I love this… I… I love…”

The light and airy feeling flowing through him gets sucked out and he falls from the heavens. Dean hits the ground with a loud crash, shattering every dream along the way.

It’s clear to him, now more than ever, why he has had trouble letting go of his feelings for Cas. Because it wasn’t a crush, and hasn’t been for a long time.

Dean was falling in love with Cas. With his friend. With the straight man, twice divorced, who fathered two children.

He glances up to the ceiling and mutters, “I’m so screwed…” It doesn’t stop him from continuing to pet Cas until he wakes up.


	12. An Angel Sent From Above

Castiel stares into the open Bible, eyes glazed over while Metatron carries on before the altar. The words on the page in front of him blur together much like the ones the priest preaches, his homily dragging past its tenth minute. He fares better than his children, Jack leaning against his shoulder sleeping and Claire nodding to his left. At least his cover provides him a reprieve from setting a better example, although he’s sure to hear from Becky about their behavior.

He doesn’t find it in him to care. His mind was lost in a tangent set off by their priest’s choice in reading. Telling the parable of the vine and the branches, Castiel allowed his imagination run wild. It brought him back to his conversation with Dean about Meg. As he expected no fruit born from her branch, Castiel decided to prune that branch from his own vine.

They ran into each other a few days after his recovery at the local hardware store. Castiel popped in to drop off his findings with the owner while Meg was waiting for paint cans to finish shaking. “Been a while,” she started, brushing a hand down his arm.

Castiel smiled but made no move to lean closer. “Yes, it has.” Not wanting to draw the interaction out further he launches into a short apology, thanking her for the wonderful night but making clear it would not happen again.

Meg was disappointed but understood. “If you change your mind and want to have some more fun,” she offered, “I’m always down for a repeat performance.” They parted on friendly terms, with Meg hiring Castiel to help with her taxes. “They make it so complicated,” Meg smirked, “might as well have you do something useful if you’re not gonna…”

“I can swing by Monday to go over it with you.”  
“It’s a _not-date_, then.”

Sighing, Castiel thinks about the rest of his vine. It’s lush and teeming with branches that bear their own, ripe fruits. He shouldn’t want for any more yet he knows there isn’t one that fully satisfies his hunger it no matter how many he plucks.

Although, with his mind roaming free and untethered, he thinks Dean’s fruits come closest to doing exactly that. It’s a strange thought to have but sincere. The taste of Dean’s fruit were sweet and left Castiel wanting more, craving any chance to spend time with him. Having Dean be a part of his vine makes him happy, and the fact he came close to his branch being torn from Castiel’s vine reminds him how lucky that didn’t happen. That they repaired their relationship before the branch could wither and fall off into the fire, burning until nothing but ash remains. 

The idea of Dean not being by his side causes an ache to churn inside. He reminds himself that they’re okay now. Still, bringing up what might have been disturbed his peace.

A feeling flutters around, one he cannot name. It’s familiar, Castiel having seen it before. But in the context of him and Dean it makes no sense.

Pain travelling up into his temple, Castiel blinks and focuses on the page in front of him. He scans it, searching for anything to catch his interest. One sentence does. Castiel reads it over and over again.

‘ _ A friend loves at all times, and a brother is born for a time of adversity _ .’

The proverb strikes a chord within him and he reflects on his relationship with Dean. Adversity was definitely a way to describe a few of the bumps on the road of their friendship, from panic to meltdowns to huge fights. They overcame every obstacle they faced and grew stronger from it. Grew closer…

Brother, he tries to stick the word to Dean. It peels off like a used sticker, no matter how many times Castiel plasters it on.

Someone bumps into him from behind, startling him from his thoughts. He turns to see who it was. Anna frowns at him, closer than she should. “We’re kneeling,” she hisses, “Mom says pay attention.”

Quickly noticing Metatron standing behind the altar instead of in front of it, Castiel pulls the kneelers down and slips onto them. Then he makes sure his children do the same. Tuning back into the mass, Castiel stuffs his earlier tangent away to mess with later. Naming the bond between him and Dean can wait. Especially when he can do so in the privacy of his own home, free from disturbances and the watchful eyes of his family.

Why that matters he can’t begin to guess.

Instead Castiel focuses on Metatron’s proceedings, hoping paying attention would speed the mass up. Time ticks away at its normal pace, but at least with no other place within the schedule gave their priest any room to freestyle.

His antsiness must show, though, because once he reaches the front to receive Communion Jo waits for him with a stern smile on her face. One reserved usually for her children. Castiel winces receiving the Body of Christ, washing it and his sister-in-law’s disappointment with a healthy swig from the offratroy wine.

The woman holding the chalice offers him a sympathetic shrug, her kind pale eyes watching him.

Castiel nods, a healthy blush staining his cheeks. She giggles, hiding it behind her hand. He doesn’t move forward. Interest piqued, Castiel studies her more closely. Takes in how her brunette hair was pulled tight in a bun, and the soft green of her blouse fits nicely on her. It’s the first time he’s seeing her, confident he’d notice her before. But there’s something familiar about her he cannot place.

Anna clears her throat beside him, jerking her chin forward. Telling him to keep going. His blush worsens and he screws his brows tight in an apology, handing the chalice back to the other woman.

Mass ends without fanfare. Metatron wraps it up, mentioning the annual clothing drive the Church puts together every Easter and telling them all where to donate. Then Jo takes the microphone and reminds the congregatio, at least those with small children, that Sunday School begins immediately after Mass ends. Her stare lingers to where Castiel sits, and he sinks in his seat.

They’ve been going to Church for six months, and yet he hasn’t let Jack go to one of her classes. She pesters him, asking why Jack hasn’t stopped in. He hasn’t the heart to tell her that Jack doesn’t want to go.

He asked him, earlier on when they were getting into the routine again. Jack frowned, fiddling with his tie. “Do I have to?”

“No,” Castiel told him, squatting down to his level, “if you’d rather go to Mass and only Mass that’s fine, I know God won’t love you any less.”

“But what about Aunt Jo?”

“I’ll take the blame,” he chuckled, “you don’t worry about a thing.”

Castiel stood by his decision, even when Jo brought in Becky to tip the scales. It was a hard fought battle, tidal waves of disappointment bearing down and knocking him around. He dug his heels in and didn’t surrender an inch. They backed off, with promises that the discussion would come up again.

“Go in peace, the peace I give you,” Father Metatron says, hands spread wide like the cross.

“And also with you.”

He leapt to his feet, happy for his Sunday freedom. Following the procession out, Castiel and his children exit into the breezy March morning with a renewed bounce to their step. They hurry down the steps, wanting to beat the parking lot traffic. However someone snatches his elbow and keeps him in place.

“Castiel!” Becky says, tugging her close to him, “I want you to meet someone…”

His heart froze, too caught off guard to fight his mother dragging him over to a crowd of other mature women. Whenever Becky said she had someone he had to meet, Castiel knew what she really meant.

It was time for his mother to play matchmaker.

She always came at the most inopportune times. Bringing people over to his house for a surprise lunch, running into him on errands, and now after Mass. Probably getting back at me for not paying attention, he thinks while shuffling after her.

Fortunately none of the women he sees immediately are who Becky brings him to. The crowd parts, and hidden behind all of them was the woman from earlier, holding the offertory wine.

All his annoyance evaporates when their eyes meet. She waves at him, the gesture tiny and nervous. His mouth parts slightly, brows drawing together in confusion.

“Castiel,” Becky starts, glancing between the two of them, “This is Hannah, Naomi’s daughter.”

“Hannah,” he says, “...it’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“She just moved here,” his mother adds, “from Ohio. That’s close to Illinois, right?”

“Very close,” Hannah laughs, “If it weren’t for Indiana we’d be neighbors.”

Becky and Hannah carry most of the conversation on their backs, Castiel instead too lost on the niggling sense of familiarity from earlier. Now free to wonder about it without disrupting service, Castiel digs into his memories. When those turn up fruitless he gives in and interrupts the other’s discussion of Metatron’s homily. “I feel like we’ve met before. Have we?”

Hannah smiles, dimples on display. “I was wondering if you would remember. We went to school around the same time… you were two years above me, but I was on the school paper. I interviewed you after you won that award?”

He remembers her. She’s changed since last he saw her. Hannah lost the red scrunchie and braces, and the choppy bangs she used to wear were replaced with windswept ones that framed her face better.

“So you’re not that new to Lebanon, are you?”

“Guilty,” she admits, “born and raised here.”

“Why’d you leave?”

“Probably same reason you did. College, met someone…”

“Very similar. Although I doubt you moved back here because of a divorce.”

Hannah doesn’t falter, which means Becky already mentioned this fact to her. He’s not surprised by this, accepting that private matters won’t remain so once his mother finds out. “No,” she tells him, “I decided a change of scenery would be best after my husband passed.”

Castiel winces. “Oh. I’m… sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“Would you mind me asking after how he died?”

“Not at all,” Hannah says, “it’s not like it was because of some sudden accident… We knew of the cancer for quite some time. In all honesty his passing was a relief, given he wouldn’t have to suffer any more.”

He nods. “It’s always better in those cases,” he adds.

“I couldn’t live in that house any longer,” she continues, “every room reminded me too much of the past… I was happy to hear that my mom hadn’t changed my old bedroom  _ too _ much. So I sold most of my belongings and came here with my cat. Sometimes you need a fresh start after a big life change.”

“I understand  _ completely _ .” 

“But sometimes you need things that are  _ familiar _ ,” Becky says, interrupting them, “Like helping out with the Communion. Your mother told me how you used to do that with your old parish. And when Jo called me up in a fit saying how Hester came down with the flu I knew  _ exactly _ who to call.”

“So that won’t be a regular thing?” Castiel asks.

“It might,” she shrugs, “I enjoy volunteering with the Church. And at least I was able to meet a lot of the town where I was.”

“That’s true…”

Their chuckles die off, Castiel unsure what to do next. Checking for his children he sees Anna talking with Claire, Jack still with her. Some part of him was worried that Becky’s diversion was a ploy to keep him away while Jo tried sneaking Jack off to Sunday school. He shouldn’t worry though, since Claire was as stubborn as he was. Her hold on Jack’s hand was tight, firm, and assured.

“You know Castiel,” Becky starts, smirking, “since you were in the same boat not so long ago… why don’t you show Hannah around town?”

“What?”

“Oh come now, Castiel,” she whacks his shoulder, “you heard me.”

“I… I did,” he stutters, “it’s… it’s not like the town’s changed  _ that _ much, though.”

“But it has  _ enough _ ,” Becky argues, “maybe not for a tour but  _ maybe _ you can show Hannah a fun evening?”

Castiel bites his lip, caging the groan bouncing around his throat. Finally Becky shows her hand, exactly how he expected it to look. Hannah, for her part, looks equally as embarrassed. 

“I’ll leave you two to plan,” she says, “I need to speak with Father Metatron about something…” Hugging him, Becky whispers. “Give it a shot, Castiel. I saw the sparks flying between you two during Communion. Don’t deny it.” Then she flits over to where their priest chats with Chuck.

“Your mother is…  _ nice _ .”

“And you’re too kind,” Castiel sighs, rubbing his temple, “Look, I’m sorry if she came on a bit too strong. She’s -”

“A mom,” Hannah chuckles, “Not any different from all the others… I know  _ mine _ has been hinting that I should re-enter the dating scene.”

“Really?”  
“Very heavily,” she says, “Kind of figured that was the point when my mom made me stay after Mass when I _should_ be working on a writing sample for the Lebanon Gazette.”

“Isn’t that the case though? Their matters are far more important than our own…” His chest relaxes, and he breathes much easier knowing Hannah was as much as a pawn to women with too much time on their hands like himself.

“Yes, but I will say,” she says, raking her gaze down his body, “I wouldn’t be  _ too _ opposed to the idea of seeing you again…  _ away _ from meddling mothers.”

The vice that loosened around his body tightens again, squeezing all the calm out in a fine paste. Castiel stiffens, taken aback by the suggestion. “Really?”

“Yes. While I might not approve of her heavy hand… my mother does have a point,” Hannah smiles, “a friendly face seems like a great place to start. We can get reacquainted over some dinner and drinks?”

It’s a tempting offer, especially when Hannah reaches forward to squeeze his arm. His heart skips over itself, and his neck burns. He thinks about his vine again, imagines a newly sprouting branch breaking free. Wonders what kind of fruit will come from it. Maybe what he’s been hoping for, fruit somehow sweeter than Dean’s.

“I… I’d like that.”

“Great. Would Thursday night work for you? At seven?”

“I’m free then.”

“Fantastic,” Hannah sighs, backing away, “I’ll call you later on to talk about locations. I’m sure by then you will have a few ideas in mind…” He nods, belatedly realizing he never told her his number. Castiel says this much to her. “Your mom gave me your number,” she flushes, “I didn’t know why until…”

“Until she brought me over.”

“Yeah.”

Castiel rubs at his jaw. “Go,” he says, “you have more important things to do than stand around here.” Hannah waves at him, walking off to where her mother waits so they can leave together. He watches her until she disappears around the corner, cheeks hurting from smiling.

“Gross,” Claire scoffs from nearby, “why do you look like that?”

Waving his daughter off, he ignores her taunts and questions in favor of thinking over his and Hannah’s interaction. Unlike the fire Meg invoked, Hannah’s touch felt like a soft caress from a gentle blanket. It was nice, but the more he focuses on it the clearer he notices how little he finds himself wishing for her fingers to brush against his skin.

The twig-like branch on his vine shudders against the winds of doubt.

* * *

Castiel leans against the counter, waiting as Anna bags a customer’s purchase. He plays with the plastic tag, spinning it around while his sister works. It’s to be expected since he came to talk while she was working. That doesn’t stop his thin patience wearing out, however. Especially when the older woman Anna helps decides to linger. Telling her exactly why she bought the dress, hoping her granddaughter likes.

He sighs through his nose. His annoyance doesn’t go as unnoticed as he hoped. Anna shoots him a look from the corner of her eye. Admonished, Castiel carries on with the tag until the customer finally leaves.

Anna slaps his arm, glaring. “Stop it,” she hisses, “I can kick you out without hearing what you have to say.”

Wincing, Castiel nods. “Sorry,” he says, “I didn’t expect her to go  _ on _ like that…”

“Madelyne usually does,” Anna tells him, “I think she doesn’t have too many people listening to her these days… so whenever she comes in I let her go on. Doesn’t hurt business, and it’s my one kind act of the day.”

“You’re a saint,” he smirks, “Truly. I can call the Vatican right away and petition for your canonization -”

“Shut it, Sassy Cassie,” Anna teases, wiping away his smirk, “we both know you don’t have those connections. Although there are people who do… like someone who recently moved here and has plans Thursday night?”

Castiel scowls at her. “You know already?”

“Of course.”

“Mom?”

“Who else? Mikey?”

He pinches his brow. “How did she find out?”

Anna rolls her eyes, tapping at her chin. “Well, I happened to be with her at the salon when Naomi walked in. Apparently her daughter Hannah has a big date coming up and she _wouldn’t…_ _stop…_ _talking_ about it.”

His head droops onto the counter, crushed by a heavy weight of embarrassment. Knowing the ease with which his and Hannah’s mothers talked about their date means the possibility the information spread beyond the hair salon was very high.

“Don’t worry,” she continues, rubbing her hand on his back, “we’re happy for you. Putting yourself out there… stepping out of your comfort zone.”

“But why can’t I be comfortable,” Catiel grumbles, “I think I deserve  _ some _ comfort.”

“Because it’s weird,” Anna tells him, “no offense.”

“Some taken,” he says, “what’s so  _ weird _ about it.” Her face twists into discomfort, and he guesses exactly what’s stuck in her throat. “Seriously?” Castiel scoffs, “you’re bringing this up again?”

“You need other friends, Castiel,” Anna says, “at least show you spend time with anyone  _ other _ than Dean.”

His bad mood doubles as she dredges up an old argument Castiel thought he laid to rest since they last fought about this. Anna worried over his and Dean’s relationship, at first because of her general protectiveness. But then she was swayed by baseless rumors, and any chance of Castiel listening to her side dropped to zero.

“Isn’t it weird how much of an interest he has in your kids?” she asks him, “I can count on my hand the amount of questions  _ all _ of Balthazar’s friends asked about Sam.”

“What? You want me to apologize because Dean’s apparently  _ nicer _ than your friends?”

“No I… I don’t want him getting the wrong idea, is all,” she admits, “I’ve been in Colette’s once or twice when they were there and it… it feels like, to me, he thinks they’re his kids.”

Castiel bites his lip, the suggestion that Dean views Jack and Claire in such a way causing his heart to flutter oddly. He pushes it down to instead quell Anna’s worries. “I’m lucky he cares about them at all. If it weren’t for Dean I don’t think I’d’ve been able to settle in as well as I have.”

“Seems like Dean’s been doing settling of his own,” Anna frowns, “Don’t get why though. If he wants a kid I know tons of other people who’d be willing to give it to him… although there haven’t been many fans recently.

He skews his head to the side, interested. Stomach turning over in knots, he asks, “Why so?”

“It’s been going ‘round that someone finally landed a date with him and he was a total  _ jerk _ !” she whispers, eyes gleaming. Castiel stiffens; already aware of what she means. “So bad she left crying…”

“I’m sure Dean didn’t mean for  _ that _ to happen,” he defends his friend, blushing, “and is apologetic. If he happens to run into this…  _ girl _ , he’ll make it up to her.”

“Hopefully not with another date,” Anna chuckles, “If he’s that bad on all of them it’s no wonder he doesn’t have a girlfriend.”

Castiel bristles, irritated hearing her talk that way about Dean. “Has it ever occurred to you that maybe he’s happy with how his life is right now?” he snaps, tone shocking both of them.

Anna steps away, hands up. “Wow, step on a nerve there?”

“Sorry, I…” He rubs at his forehead, wincing, “you’re making it sound like something’s wrong, but there’s nothing wrong. If there was he’d tell me about it. I’m sure of it.” Unless, he thinks, it’s the thing he’s dealing with but can’t tell Castiel about. His heart squeezes in panic.

“Come on, Cassie, you’re a big boy. You can put pieces together.” Anna opens a drawer beside her and takes out a water bottle. “Man looking like that who refuses to date? There’s a story there…”

He lets her drink, preferring the silence.

What she said isn’t far from his own thoughts. They’ve been persistent lately, ever since the Roadhouse. Castiel knows he promised Dean he wouldn’t pry but the curiosity eats away at him. He wants to understand so badly, mainly so Castiel can fix the root of Dean’s problem.

Dean believes Castiel can’t relate to whatever is plaguing him. Castiel believes that Dean underestimates him. His mother may be alive but Castiel shared in Dean’s pain. His father was never cruel like Dean’s but he was there for him, ready to shove John Winchester into the dirt if their paths ever crossed. Their childhoods differed greatly but in a way something within them resonated enough that Castiel felt he and Dean shared common threads of a greater patchwork. Convinced Dean and he think the same.

The problem resting on Dean’s shoulders now, however, towers over all of that. And Castiel wonders how bad it must be for Dean to want to shove this in the shadows. And if the secret  _ was _ a bad relationship or a secret girlfriend…

Castiel doesn’t know what he would do. All that comes to mind is an overwhelming sadness that causes his knees to buckle.

Shaking his head, Castiel decides to redirect the conversation towards the reason he stopped by. “Can you do me a favor?”

“What?”

“I need you to watch my kids Thursday night.”

Anna frowns. “Why? Claire’s old enough to be at home by herself.”

“No,” he sighs, “she’s lost that responsibility for at least another week.”

“What she do? Throw a rager while you were out?”

“Not exactly a rager but definitely a party.”

“Damn, girl’s got guts. Sure she’s yours?”

“With every gray hair I find,” he smirks, “So? Can you do it?”

She mulls it over, tapping her water bottle against the counter. “Fine,” she says, “but expect to owe me  _ big time _ . I don’t have to do this. Mom can easily -”

“I want to be able to  _ go home _ after this date, you know. Relax?” He raises a brow, “I wouldn’t get to do that if mom keeps me up as I go over every little detail.”

“You don’t have to go home right away, y’know…”

Frowning, Castiel crosses his arms. “What are you getting on about?”

“I’m just saying,” Anna drawls out, “you’re an adult…  _ she’s _ an adult… motel rates are cheaper on weekdays -”

“Anna!”

“What?”

“What are you -? Why are you -?” he breathes deeply, calming his frantic pulse, “How do you know this?”

“Because sometimes Balthazar and I have date nights and we miss being sexualy active,” she shrugs, rolling her eyes at the disgust glowing on Castiel’s face. “Grow up and be happy I’m even offering you the chance. I could tell you to be home at a certain time but no, I’m taking pity on you.”

Castiel’s expression doesn’t shift. However he can’t blame his reaction entirely on his sister. When she brought up sex between him and Hannah his body instantly recoild at the idea. His nerves twisted over themselves and Castiel can’t tell whether his heart eats his stomach or vice versa. 

It’s a confusing reaction given all the interest he had for Hannah prior. He asks himself why his feelings would lurch one-hundred and eighty degrees in a different direction. The Roadhouse, once more, comes to mind. Although it’s not the realization he came to in the bathroom stall, about how emphasizing a physical connection wasn’t the right choice for him.

No, what stands out clearly is Dean’s face after seeing Castiel walk out. Watching it shift through a variety of emotions until landing on a reluctant acceptance. Something spears his heart while remembering that horrible night, and he gasps without reason.

Anna stares at him. “You okay?”

He coughs, trying to cover up his outburst. “Yes, I’m fine. I… it’s… so you’ll do it?”

“Yeah, I said so,” she reaches out to him, laying a hand on his shoulder, “You sure you’re okay? Not having second thoughts?”

“Of course not.” Castiel slips on a false grin, brushing her off. “I’m looking forward to it. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to head back home, I’ve been away far longer than I should have.” He knows Anna didn’t buy his act and he flees before she traps him, forcing him to explain himself.

Problem is Castiel wouldn’t know how to even with a gun to his head. Thoughts of Hannah and Dean swirl in his mind, and Castiel wonders if Thursday night is a good idea after all.

* * *

Hannah waits by a bush, checking her watch. Castiel runs shaky fingers through his hair and then moves to fix his tie. Earlier in the car he loosened it to breathe easier. Now, however, he pulls it tight before crossing the street.

She spots him as he’s passing between a Jeep and VW bug. “Hey,” Hannah says, waiting until he’s close enough to reach across and hug him, “you look nice.”

“As do you.” Her outfit was a deep violet dress that flared at the waist and hit her knees, complemented by a cream-colored camisole and white strappy heels. Like Sunday her hair was done up in a tight bun.

It puts his white button down and khakis to shame.

“Shall we?” he asks, holding his arm out for her.

Hannah takes it after a slight pause. “Might as well,” she says, “since we’re both here.” They chuckle, entering the restaurant together.

He chose one of the fancier places in town for their date. De Vino’s has been a staple of the town ever since he can remember, being run by a family who can trace their roots back to a small village in Italy. Castiel dined here many times in his youth, from his mom’s birthday to when his family celebrated his award win.

“I haven’t been there since my  _ graduation _ ,” Hannah told him over the phone the other day, “I’d love to go back. Their gnocchi was spectacular…”

Together they walk over to the hostess, a girl about the same age as his own daughter. He reads the nametag, Krissy, and thinks he’s heard the name before.

“Hello,” he says, “we have a reservation for two? Novak?”

“Novak?” Krissy perks up, smirking, “Wait… you wouldn’t happen to be Claire’s dad would you?”

“I am. Are you two friends?”  
“She’s cool,” Krissy tells him, scanning the ledger on her podium, “Found it! Just in time, too. A few more minutes and you would have lost your reservation. Here, let me show you to your seats.” Krissy pulls a few menus from a shelf and leads them to a table in the center of the room. Castiel helps Hannah into her char and then takes his, gladly accepting the menu from Krissy. “Your waiter should be coming by any minute… and tell Claire I said hi, okay?”

“I’ll pass the message along,” he says, smiling. Krissy leaves after that, and he turns his focus to Hannah. She watches him with a small grin on her own face. “What?”

“Nothing,” Hannah waves him off, picking up her own menu, “I nearly forgot you had children… was that why you were late?”

He blushes at the reminder of his faux pas. “Yes, well… part of the reason,” Castiel explains, “I was getting ready to leave when my sister called…”

Sam tripped and fell down the stairs while Anna wasn’t looking, and he wouldn’t stop crying. “We’re taking him to the doctor,” she told him, “in case he might have broken anything. I’m really sorry Cassie but -”

“I know, I know. Go. Make sure Sam’s okay.”

Hanging up the phone with his towel around his waist, Castiel knew he was in serious trouble. Especially when Claire began arguing for the chance to be left alone again. “You know that’s not going to happen,” he told her, “so stop.”

Claire sneered, crossing her arms. “Then who are you going to get on such short notice?”

“I’m sure I can find someone…”

No one was available. Gabriel had plans later in the evening as well, was in the middle of getting ready for them when Castiel called. Michael and Jo were too busy with an event at the Community Center to be able to watch his kids. Luke didn’t bother to pick up his phone. Castiel even swallowed his pride and called his mother.

“I wish I would have known sooner, Castiel!” she huffed from the other end, “but your father’s already left for his silly hunting trip, and I promised Naomi I’d come over for a girl’s night since… you know -”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he let her go. Claire watched this all happen with an expectant smile. He glared at her. “No.”

“Come on!” Claire yelled, “I’m too old for a babysitter anyway! There’s literally no one left who can do it anyway!”

There was one, but Castiel didn't want to bother him. Glancing at the phone, however, there might be no other choice. Castiel kept Dean in the dark about his plans for the night, hoping to avoid a repeat of the last time. Unforeseen complications spoiled this and Castiel found himself dialing up Dean’s number.

Between rings he hoped either Sam picked up or it went to voicemail. Neither happened. “Dean here,” he said, “who is it?”

“Hello, Dean.”

“Cas!” Dean sighed, “Perfect timing! Just got in.”

He bit his lip to stifle the oncoming groan. “Great…”

Dean picked up his tone immediately. “Hey, is something wrong?”

Weighing the options in his mind, Castiel considered allowing Claire to stay alone or cancelling on Hannah altogether. Both options were trashed. Claire looked too happy which made him suspicious. And Hannah didn’t deserve to be stood up because Castiel was scared.

Why should I be, he asked himself. Dean wouldn’t be going on the date this time. Instead he’d be doing what he usually does at Colette’s. Still he steeled his nerves and swallowed them before broaching the subject with Dean.

He didn’t answer him at first. Dean kept him waiting, at times making Castiel think he hung up from how silent it was. But then Dean spoke, asking in a quiet voice when he needed him over. “Are you sure?” Castiel asked, “If I caught you in the middle of something -”

“Naw, Cas,” he drawled, “You need me. And I’m here.”

Put that way tugged on Castiel heartstrings. Unable to add anything of value, Castiel left Dean with the time he should swing by. Then the line went dead. Castiel stood by the phone, receiver limp in his grasp until Claire nudged him out of his trance.

“Don’t you have to get ready?” she asked, “you don’t want your hair to dry like that, do you?”

In his rush to dress Castiel forgot about the weird tightness in his chest. That is until he answered the door and saw Dean waiting there, chin tucked and hands buried in his pockets. Looking rather small.

“Hey,” he breathed.

Dean nodded. “Hey yourself.”

Their eyes met, and Castiel relaxed against the handle. All earlier tension and worry he carried earlier in the day melted away in Dean’s presence, nothing too large to handle when under his friend’s scrutiny.

The stare broke when Dean, shifting on his feet, looked past Castiel. “You gonna let me in or…?”

He remembered what he was doing, and hurriedly helps Dean in. “Thank you so much for doing this,” Castiel said, “I wouldn’t have done this except Anna had an emergency and everyone else bailed and…”

“So you asked me last?”

Frowning, Castiel turned to him. “I feel like I’m always asking of you,” he admitted, “I didn’t… want to bother you.”

Dean smiled at him, shrugging. “It’s not bothering when you ask, Cas.”

“Because we’re friends?”

“...Yeah.”

Even in the strange state Castiel heard the disappointment in Dean’s voice. He was about to ask if he truly was well enough to look after his children except a buzzing against his wrist prevented him. His watch told him he needed to be out the door five minutes ago.

“The fridge is fully stocked, but just in case I left money for take out,” Castiel said, tying his tie, “and the number for the restaurant is on the fridge. I trust you’ll be able to handle anything but in case you need me -”

“I’ll call.”

“And whatever you do, don’t listen to Claire,” Castiel turned, finger pointed at him, “she’s pissed because I’m not leaving her alone tonight and she might try to do something.”

Dean promised he would with a deflated enthusiasm. With nothing else to say, Castiel grabbed his keys and walled and made for the door. “Wait,” Dean stopped him, “you forgot something.”

“What?”

Instead of answering Dean reached out and fixed Castiel’s collar, the stiff material not resting as it should. Dean focused on smoothing it out, his tongue poking between his lips. When finished his fingers brushed the perimeter. Castiel felt Dean’s touch against his neck instantly, shocked at the contact.

He pulled his hand away. The touch lingered, however, and time stretched on slowly. The spark traveled from his neck and spread over his body in the second it took for Dean to blink. His cheeks heated up without warning, and Castiel’s stomach dropped out somewhere between them.

“...Thank you, Dean.”

Dean’s brow raised and he stepped away. “Cas?”

“Yeah?”

“You were-you were going?”

Startled, Castiel checked his watch again. Ten minutes past. “Right. Right right right…” He spun on his heel. “Thank you. I shouldn’t be out late.”

After shoving whatever happened between him and Dean far into the recesses of his mind to never be thought of again, Castiel instead spent more effort and energy into rushing across town to meet with Hannah.

He told her the condensed version of this story, trimmed so that the only mention of Dean being the friend he called to watch Claire and Jack. Not the friend who has been constantly stuck in his head and brings with him a cocktail of emotions that leave him with a special kind of hangover.

Are friends supposed to do that? Castiel isn’t sure anymore.

“I’m glad you didn’t have to cancel,” Hannah says, still looking at her menu, “I’ve been looking forward to this since Sunday.”

Castiel grimaces. “So have I.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, content in perusing the menus until their waiter arrives. He comes with a bread basket and a smile. “Hi, my name’s Aidan and I’ll be your server for tonight. Do you want to start with drinks or have you decided on what you’ll be eating already?”

She ordered first, asking for gnocchi and a bottle of the house red to share between them. Castiel opted for simple spaghetti and meatballs, adding some mozzarella sticks to their bill.

“Mozzarella sticks?” Hannah asked once Aiden left, “Aren’t we a little too old for those?”

“You’re never too old for anything.”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“A… friend told me that, once.” Switching off of Dean yet again, he says. “You were writing something for the paper, weren’t you? What was it?”

He chose the right segue, Hannah’s eyes sparkling in the dim lighting. “It wasn’t anything special, just a writing sample… do you remember when they used to throw this huge Fall festival when we were younger?”

“Of course, I never knew why they stopped…”

“Well I do,” she says, “after some digging…”

Aidan brings around two glasses and the bottle of wine, pouring it for them. “I’m hooked,” he tells her, “what was the reason?”

Hannah weaves a captivating story about city politics and zoning that has him on the edge of the seat in awe. She knows exactly which points to draw out and what information to give, turning an otherwise boring oversight into a thrilling tale. With a happy ending, of course, since the article was going to be printed in next month’s issue.

“Congratulations!”

“It wasn’t because of  _ just _ that,” Hannah confessed, sipping her wine, “I know my old boss wrote me a glowing recommendation.”

“I can’t wait to read it,” he says, “usually I glance over the daily and stick to more national trades, for work. But now I have a reason.”

“Since I went on about my work, why don’t you do the same?”

Castiel does. It’s nothing too exciting, going over people’s forms and looking for discrepancies. Busy work until spring, when he knew his service would pick up. Tax season makes even the most confident person unsure, and already he’s booked for the next few weeks to help. Hannah admits to knowing nothing of the country’s tax code, but finds Castiel’s interest in it amusing.

“We like what we like,” she shrugs, “How you can learn all those laws, I’ll never understand.”

“Believe me if I didn’t love math I’d find it frustrating as you do.”

Aidan returns with their food, and they switch to more basic conversation. Talking about their time away from Lebanon, what they miss. For Castiel it was a coffee house around the corner from his office that made the best Americano. Hannah missed her jogging group. Luckily the sport’s universal and Castiel has a new favorite spot.

The night wears on much like that, Castiel enjoying their time together. After finishing dinner they split dessert. “I usually don’t do this,” Hannah says, slicing into the chocolate cake, “but I don't want this to end yet.”

Castiel wishes he felt the same.

All throughout their meal, while they were connecting, Castiel thought Hannah was a nice woman. His opinion of her didn’t extend beyond this. Nothing she offered inspired any dizzying need inside him to take this dinner beyond friendship. Still he grins through chocolate and nods.

Bill paid they exit De Vino’s, Castiel walking Hannah to her car. “I had a lovely time,” she sighs, bumping shoulders with him, “I’m surprised how warm you are. In high school you seemed rather…  _ cold _ .”

“I have a very stern resting face,” he shrugs, “it’s off putting for some people.”

“Not me.” She stops by her car, a silver Camry. Turning to him, Hannah looks up and flashes her dimples at him. “We should do this again.”

Maybe as friends, he thinks. Castiel again keeps this to himself, agreeing with her. Then Hannah leans forward and steals a kiss from him. He watches as she closes her eyes, pressed against him.

If he wasn’t sure before this kiss confirms his suspicions.

Castiel waits for Hannah’s car disappears around the corner to slowly make his way towards his own. All the while wondering what was missing.

There wasn’t any awkward silences between them, he realizes while buckling. Slowing by a stop sign Castiel relives the iciness that stung him when Hannah mentioned her distaste for reality television. While also believing them to be stupid Castiel found them relaxing fodder. But this disagreement was superficial, and tosses this away as a reason while turning. Finally while speeding to pass a yellow light Castiel decides that there was no one moment to place blame on. Castiel and Hannah were two pieces of a puzzle that didn’t fit together.

Disappointing, but not surprising. He put too much faith in the fruit on Hannah’s branch.

Castiel parks in his driveway, sighing. Sitting in his failure, he tries to overcome the exhaustion to smile. Or at least hide his sadness behind a false mask of cheer.

Aware of a light from nearby Castiel looks up to see the window of his living room glowing. Castiel steps out of his car to investigate further.

Inside, sitting on the couch, were Dean, Jack, and Claire. The television played on needlessly as the three were asleep and cuddled together. Jack and Claire rested on Dean’s shoulders, the other man’s arms tucked around them. A bowl of popcorn kernels forgotten on the coffee table.

His cheeks hurt from smiling. Castiel brushes his fingers across them, wondering after the strange warmth flickering in his chest. Unlike every other time it appears Castiel delves into the mystery. Chasing after an answer that lies out of reach. An answer to what Dean does to him.

The proverb he read on Sunday comes to mind. Brother, he thinks, there’s a lot of weight to the word. Is that what Dean is to him?

He isn’t sure. Castiel won’t stop until he is.


	13. Closet Talk

Dean frowns behind his hand, staring at the cards there. He scans it while deciding between two different questions. Trusting his gut he asks Jack, “Got any fives?”

“Go fish!”

Sighing, Dean draws another card from the pile. A king of hearts, to join the queen and jack already in his hand. He’s assembled a royal court in his attempts to empty his hand. Fitting that they’re all of the same suit, since he crowned himself the fool of hearts earlier in the evening.

It started when he walked past his front door after a shift at Colette’s made only longer since there were no Novaks to keep him company. He grew used to having them in his diner, days without a visit dragging on in boredom. Dean loved hearing Jack talk about his day, trading barbs with Claire, and especially joking with Cas and watching him snort into his milkshake. All were absent from today and his world dimmed.

Dean knew how to work without them, though, since their company wasn’t an infinite resource. However this week was odd since the Novaks only visited once the day before, and didn’t stay for too long. And that was only the children.

Cas didn’t stop in at all.

So of course the man was on his mind. He was worried. It wasn’t because his thoughts drifted towards Cas whenever there were moments of peace in his life. Although that was the case since November. This wasn’t one of those times, he lies to himself.

The phone rang from nearby, and Dean skipped over the closet to pick up the recevier. He answered, “Dean here, who is it?”

“Hello Dean.”

Dean’s heart stuttered and his back stiffened. “Cas!” he sighed, “Perfect timing! Just got in.” He nearly laughed at the funny trick of fate, having the other man call him when he was thinking of him. The light-hearted feeling in his chest tampered down when Dean heard Cas’s lukewarm response. “Hey, is something wrong?”

Cas’s slight pause told him whatever he was about to say was nothing Dean would like. Reminded him that fate only played with him when she wanted to see him suffer. Confirmed, when Cas explained his need for a babysitter to go on a date, that nothing in his life could be too good.

He made Cas wait a while for his answer. Not that he needed to, already set on going over to help. But Dean considered saying no to the other man. Flirted with the idea, testing it out on his lips. It didn’t matter, the two letters lumpy and bitter on his tongue. He swallowed them down, replaced them with a question on when Cas wanted him there.

“Are you sure?” Cas asked, “If I caught you in the middle of something -”

“Naw Cas,” he drawled, “You need me. And I’m here.” That sounded sad even to him, and he winced. Hoped that Cas wouldn’t dig further. Finally rewarded a reprieve, Cas mentioned when he should swing by and hung up.

Dean listened to the dial tone for awhile.

“Dean!”

“What?” he snapped back to the present, blinking at Jack. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked if you have any jacks!”

He glances behind him, over-exaggerating his scowl. “You’re cheating somehow, I know it!” Jack giggles in response, waving his hand of three cards in response. Dean picks his jack and tosses it over, the frown giving way to a smile seeing Jack slam his own card on top of it.

Claire snorts from behind her magazine. “Losing to a kid, Dean? Weak.”

“Don’t you have to be a cynical teen somewhere else?”

She folds the magazine over, showing the upper half of her face. “Maybe. Is that permission for me to head out?”

Dean clicks his tongue at her. “Not a chance, kid.” They glare at each other, daring the other to surrender. He wins, and Claire growls as she fixes her magazine. Chuckling, Dean tries to pair his queens up. As expected his queen flies solo once more, unable to find her match.

Again his thoughts drift to Cas, reminded of their time together in his hall. It was an unexpected moment that left him with butterflies and confusion.

Cas was on his way to meet someone else, another woman, yet he seemed to linger like he didn’t want to leave. Gazing at him with the same intensity he became familiar with peppered in with an extra dimension. Reacting in new ways that surprised Dean. A simple collar flip shouldn’t have reduced someone like Cas to an oozing puddle. If it was the other way around Dean would act the same. Dean was gay though, so it made sense why Cas’s touch would short out his circuits. A straight guy like Cas shouldn’t have heated up like that.

Jack draws him from wandering too far down a disappointing rabbit hole. He shakes his head, clearing the false hope away to finish the game.

He loses, of course.

“Is there anything else you want to do, Jack?” he asks, “I’ve had my fill of Go Fish for the night.”

Pouting, Jack shifts in his seat while he thinks. Dean passes the time cleaning the coffee table of stray cards. He doubts there’s much else they can do, seeing how late it was. They’ve already eaten dinner; burgers Dean cooked for them all with a side of fries he nuked in the microwave. And Dean banned Uno after Claire and Jack teamed up against him with their reverses and plus fours.

“Can you tell us a story?” 

Dean raises a brow at Jack. “You want a story?” he asks, “Isn’t that usually a bed time thing?”

Jack shrugs. “I feel like a story _ now _. Can you do it?”

“I don’t know,” Dean hums, rubbing his legs, “I’m not the story-type of guy… not really good at making things up on the spot.”

“Dad is,” Claire says, focused on her magazine, “When I was young he’d make up these adventures of a girl named Princess Kathryn.” She huffs, teenage disinterest bleeding back into her voice. “They were all right for what they were, but it wasn’t too hard. I’m sure even _ you _ can think of something. Easier than _ Go Fish _ at least…”

He takes it as a compliment, since it was the nicest Claire’s been to him since Cas left. Dean understands though. At that age he would have been angry if someone else rocked in and took charge. Not that John cared enough to hire babysitters when they actually needed them.

Swinging back to Jack and his begging eyes, Dean relents. “I can’t make up a story,” he starts, “but… would you like to hear something a little more non-fiction than fairy tale?”

Jack nods. “Sure!”

Past step one, Dean racks his brain for something interesting enough for the kids. In the grand filing system of his memories, one sticks out better than the rest. Something he hadn’t thought about in years. Dusting it off, Dean asks, “You ever wonder why I call the diner Colette’s?”

“Yeah,” Jack says, bouncing in his seat, “Who is she? Was she your mom? Was she nice?”

“From what I’ve been told she was the nicest.”

“What you’ve been told?” Claire snorts, “You don’t know the person your business is named after?”

“No, _ Claire _, I don’t,” he huffs, “Because I didn’t name the diner. The original owner, Cain, he did. And when I bought the place from him I kept the name because of what he told me. What I’m about to tell you now…”

Cain was a young man with a thorn in his side from an early age. Growing up on a farm in the midwest, his family tasked him with watching his brother Abel among all the other duties he had to handle. Abel was the favorite son who can do no wrong. Whereas whenever a problem arose on their land the blame landed within range of Cain. His grandfather said the Dust Bowl was probably Cain’s fault, too. Because he kicked up a pile of it every time he threw a tantrum.

“All of it collected and ruined millions of lives,” Cain’s grandfather said, “Because you couldn’t help but act like a damned kid all the time.”

Cain was thirteen.

Bearing all that weight allowed resentment to grow inside. Poisoning him and his thoughts. Making him think terrible things. Like how many times could he kick a cow before it reacted or how long could chickens go without eating. Or if Abel would notice the stampede in time to get out of the way.

Suffice to say the answer to the last one was - he would _ not _.

His mother cried for days and nights until she ran empty of everything, becoming a shell. Cain’s father barely spent any time in the house any longer after that, having moved into the barn with the other animals so he wouldn’t see Abel’s empty cot. “Granddaddy to to the drink fiercer than ever,” Cain told Dean, “gave him the courage to do what I know he’d been wanting to do since the day I was born.”

Cain left home on his sixteenth birthday, with a rucksack and an oozing burn on his arm from a scalding cattle branding iron. “Courtesy of that bastard,” Cain showed it to him, the raised seven on his arm finally making sense.

Ousted from the only place he knew scared Cain, but also filled him with an excitement he never felt in his life. Free from the burdens and responsibilities of his family, Cain decided to indulge himself in whatever crossed his path. Taking odd jobs and using the money for booze and women. Starting fights over the most meaningless of issues, testing his strength and the limits of his abilities with each unsuspecting foe.

When war broke out overseas Cain signed up the second he sobered up. Maiming was adequate but peskily meant he could go to jail if he went too far. The beauty of war was the government paid him to dive over the cliff and into the swirling abyss.

On the battlefield Cain unleashed all the pent-up rage and terror he suffered for years on the farm in the middle of nowhere. Each bullet that sunk into the skulls of enemy troops Cain imagined faces from his past over the foreign, lifeless ones.

He never wanted it to end. So when it did, Cain had no idea what he was supposed to do. Battle was simple. Living was hard. Shipped back to the states with a worthless medal and a warped mental state, Cain was at the mercy of his dark thoughts. No longer able to turn outward after bloating himself on the buffet of human suffering during the war, his anger turned inward.

Entering into scrapes he lost more times than he won. Drinking so heavily he blacked out at nine. Drugs that provided escape for a short while. Cain spent the following nine years on the world’s worst bender.

Of course, Dean doesn’t tell Jack nor Claire any of that. Aware of his audience and what Cas would do to him if he scarred them, he began where it mattered. When Cain met Colette.

“Cain was walking along the side of the road one night when he happened upon a woman yelling at a broken down car,” Dean told them, “she had grease on her face, her skirt was tattered, and she had a bad attitude. He was intrigued. Normally he would have passed her by but instead he walked over and offered his help. She turned him down, said she could do it.”

“Did she?”

“She tried,” he chuckled, “And Cain watched her. All the while they chatted each other up until finally he offered her a bet. If he could fix the car, she’d give him food and board for a week. But she asked him what she’d get if he couldn’t.”

“What’d he say?”

“That’d he’d leave her alone.” Dean shrugged, picturing it in his own mind. “He fixed it in under an hour, and Colette stayed true to her word. Although it wasn’t the fanciest of places, a little shack on her father’s property.”

“How old was this Colette?” Claire asks, skeptical, “Because Cain sounds like he’s in his twenties - maybe even _ thirties _. If she was sixteen…”

“Twenty-five!” he tells her, “She was twenty-five! Colette still lived with her father because she never married. Fellas in her town wanted to but none of them impressed her much.”

Claire scowls but stills her protests. “I know that feeling,” she mutters.

“Anyway,” Dean continues, “halfway through the week her old man found them out. Cranky ol’ ba-man… threw a fit, thought he was there to steal her away. They both denied it, Colette even calling him an unwashed caveman.”

“And he thought she was nice?” Claire asks.

“She _ was _,” Dean says, “Not at first… they didn’t start out that way. After managing to calm the coot down Cain told him about the promise, and got Colette into trouble. She wasn’t supposed to be driving. Bound by her word Cain could finish out the week and then go. Except near the end of the week he started up an old project that neither Colette nor her father finished. Made another bet with her: for two weeks if he fixed it. It kept going on like that. He’d find something to do and they’d bet whether or not he could. Colette lost every time.”

“Over the months, though, he and Colette grew close. Bickering became conversations became secrets whispered. Men stopped bothering Colette because she always hung around Cain, and with his burly body and beard no one wanted to get on the wrong side of him. Cain didn’t mind having her hang around him, enjoying the company. So much so that he felt this… this strange peace inside that he’s never felt before. He didn’t know what it was until one morning Cain woke up and realized he hadn’t engaged in any of the… _ behavior _ he had gotten used to doing. Then he understood what was happening. He was happy. Because of _ her _.”

“Did she feel the same?” Jack asks, leaning on Dean’s leg.

“She sure did,” Dean says, smiling. “A year since he found her on that road Cain confessed to her what was going on inside his head. Told her all about his past, so she knew him fully. Colette didn’t like a lot of it, but accepted him all the same. She couldn’t turn him away after falling in love with him.”

“What happened next?”

“Another six months of sneaking around. But when they wanted to marry, Colette knew she had to come clean to her father. He was… well, he wasn’t _ thrilled _.”

Dean’s lips thinned out as he recounted the next part. “Pulled a gun on Cain and told him if he was still there when the sun rose he wouldn’t see it again. Guy had a problem with his daughter turning around every available bachelor in town to fall for the surly drifter with nothing to his name.”

“He didn’t take it, though, right?” Claire asks, magazine forgotten on the coffee table, “Cain fought back?”

“Cain turned tail to the shack to gather his things,” Dean tells them, “All that time together didn’t fix everything. Couldn’t silence the voice in the back of his mind saying how he didn’t deserve happiness or love. Didn’t deserve _ her _. Figured he could pick up and leave, stop messing with their lives.”

“He doesn’t get to decide that!” Claire yelled, “Didn’t he ask Colette what _ she _ wanted?”

“He didn’t have to,” Dean smirks, “Because halfway down the road the very car that broke down all that time ago pulled up to him, Colette behind the wheel. Backseat was stuffed with her own bag. Said that she was leaving one way or another and if he really loved her he’d get in.”

Jack frowns, “Did he?”

“Not at first,” Dean says, “Asked her if she wanted to throw everything away for a screw up like him. Colette told him none of what she had mattered until they found each other. That he wasn’t a screw up, he was a fixer. He fixed everything on their farm, including her lonely heart. Cain didn’t need to hear anything else. They packed up and drove all the way East until they settled down in a nice little town named Lebanon.”

“Didn’t have much to their names, so they sold the car and used the money to buy some property near the outskirts of town. Bought the diner before a house, fixed it up all on their own. When trying to come up with a name he suggested they use hers. She asked why. He said that he wanted his diner to feel like home to whoever stepped inside, and Colette was his home.”

Jack sighed from nearby, falling back against the cushions. “So it’s a happy ending!”

“Yeah…” Dean bites his lip, cutting the story off there. There was more to tell but Jack and Claire didn’t need to know what happened after. How the dream turned sour because of suspicion and judgment. Scraping by month after month, barely able to keep a roof over their heads. Colette falling ill and dying a decade into the business.

Cain blamed himself, he told Dean after signing away his rights to the diner. They shared a bottle of bourbon between them to celebrate. “If I had the money, if I could’ve done something right… maybe she wouldn't have died…”

He sees the smile on Jack’s face and the glistening of Claire’s eyes and lays the memory to rest.

“Dean,” Jack perks up, staring at him, “have you ever been in love?”

Dean chokes on air, whipping around to gape at the younger boy. “What?”

“Love,” he repeats, “The way Cain was with Colette. Since you own the diner now does that mean you have your own Colette? Or have you not found her because you would have named the diner after her if you did?”

His jaw opens and closes with nothing coming out. There are many answers he could give. No, he’s never been in love. Yes, he has but it didn’t work out. Yes, he is, but it’s never _going_ _to_ work out.

Gaze landing on the television Dean decides on what to say. “Why don’t we watch a movie?”

“What?”

Standing, Dean claps his hands. “Jack, why don’t you find something you want to watch while I make some popcorn. And Claire… stay there.” Turning, he ignores the burning stares from the children. It wasn’t his swiftest exit but he valued speed over accuracy.

Dean willed his hand to stop shaking as he went about finding popcorn. The bowl was easy to find. What Cas hid on him were the popcorn kernels. He found the Jiffy Pop container hidden in the pantry behind a bag of plastic bags, rolling his eyes at the disorganization. “He needs one of those things you can hang off a knob and store your plastic bags…”

Placing the Jiffy Pop on the stove, Dean let his mind mellow by focusing on the tinfoil circle. Watching it puff up the more kernels popped. After the suggested cooking time Dean felt calm enough to face the kids again.

But then the phone rang.

“I’ll get it!” he yells, picking up the nearby phone. “Novak residence, Dean speaking. Who’s there?”

“I seriously can’t believe you’re doing this.”

Dean bites back a groan, slumping over so his forehead rested on the wall. “Sam. Home already?”

“Yeah,” Sam hisses, “And I got your note. Really? Are you some kind of masochist? Do you enjoy feeling like _ shit _ all the time?”

“I do not -” Dean glances into the living room, checking to see if either Jack or Claire’s listening in. They’re too preoccupied with other things. Still Dean lowers his voice. “I don’t.”

“Then why are you over there?”

“I’m helping out a friend.”

Sam scoffs, “Oh, yeah. Listen, it’s me and you so I’d love it if you didn’t _ lie _ to me.”

Dean’s nails press into his palm. “I’m not lying!”

“You sure?” he asks, “Because we both know Cas isn’t some _ friend _.”

At times like this Dean wishes his younger brother never followed him to Lebanon. Because then he wouldn’t have someone to take his bad decisions and rub them in his face constantly as a reminder why he sucks and can’t function on his own. “It isn’t like that right now,” Dean says, “he’s not even here.”

“No kidding, otherwise why would you be watching his kids.” Dean pictures Sam in their kitchen, glaring out the window with one of his fiercest bitch faces. Still in his deputy’s uniform because seeing Dean’s note filled him with so much rage he had to confront him about it. “Is he on a _ date _, Dean?”

Dean doesn’t answer because he knows silence is enough for Sam.

“Unbelievable,” Sam sighs, “Because the _ first _ time wasn’t bad enough. Or do you not remember because you drank yourself _ sick _ afterwards. As someone who was an _unwilling_ guest at your pity party, you should know that you were a _ mess _.”

“It’s not gonna be like that this time, Sam. I’m at his house while he’s… _ out _.” His stomach twists at the fact.

“Yeah, you’re there because you’re being a total _ doormat _ with him!”

Dean flushes, temper rising. “I am _ not _ a doormat!”

“Yes you fucking are, Dean,” Sam argues, “Everytime you come home I see a fresh pair of footprints on your back ‘cause you let Cas walk all over you. Watching his kids, letting him mess with your diner… You let him do this because you think maybe one day he’ll decide to go gay and fuck you like you want!”

He stomps his foot. “For fuck’s sake, Sam, where do you get off? If I wanted your opinion I’d ask for it. But since I didn’t can you shut up? I know I’m a sucker, okay. I am _ not _ watching Cas’s kids because I think he’s gonna fuck me for it or because I’m... I’m head over heels in love with the guy, all right?”

“What the fuck?”

Dean freezes, grip on the receiver loosening. It slides out and whacks against the wall, Sam’s voice screaming out from the earpiece. He whips around to stare, wide-eyed, at Claire. She matches his expression. Recovering slightly, Dean reaches out to her. “Claire -”

She spins around and runs from the room. Dean’s soul shudders while exiting his body, vision blurring. In a daze he fumbles for the phone, bringing it back to his face. “Sam, I… I fucked up. I fucked up. I need to go do damage control.”

“Dean, what are you -”

“Please stay there I… I’ll fill you in when I get home.”

“No, Dean. What -”

He hangs up.

Dean hurries after her, glad to see Jack too focused with the videotapes. Jack glances at him, frowning. “Where’s the popcorn?”

“In a little bit,” he tells him, “I need to talk to your sister first.”

“She went up to her room,” he says, returning to his task, “Don’t know why, since we’re gonna be watching a movie…”

He rushes up the stairs, almost tripping over the steps. Dean slows down when he hits the second floor, willing his heart to settle while creeping over to Claire’s half-open door. It not being closed should be a good sign. Knocking once, Dean asks to come in. When she doesn’t answer he walks past the threshold.

Claire doesn’t look up from where she’s sprawled across her bed, body turned to the window. Dean winces at the pose. “Hey, kiddo,” he chuckles awkwardly, “you all right?”

She huffs. “Do you even care enough to ask that?”

Sighing, Dean moves towards the foot of the bed and sits on it. “You heard all that.” No answer. “Claire, you… I think you maybe misheard a few things -”

“Did I?” she asks, “You mean I didn’t hear you admit to wanting to having sex with my dad? That you’re not actually in love with him like some… some… _ girl _? Newsflash Dean, you’re a guy. Guys aren’t supposed to like other guys.” Her words cut straight into his heart and he pressed a hand against it to stem the pain. Still the shock traveled upwards and caused his eyes to leak.

Dean wipes away a tear. “You wouldn’t be the first person to tell me that, Claire.”

“Ever think about listening?”

“It’s not something I can turn off.”

Interest piqued, Claire turns over to look at him. “What do you mean?”

“Well…” he trails off, unprepared to talk about his sexuality. Out of all the things he thought they would do tonight this wasn’t on the list. But he can’t let this linger unspoken between them. He needs to explain himself, hope that Claire will be moved enough to keep his secret. Otherwise she could ruin him in this town _ and _ with her father. It’s why he kept all his feelings bottled up, so Cas wasn’t burdened with the weight of unrequited affections. “There were moments when I was younger that I… I tried to stop it. To _ be _ like everybody else. I never felt any sort of way about girls but lied because all the other boys did. Thought there was something wrong with me for a long time until I… I met someone who showed me how right I could feel.”

He smiles, thinking of Robin. It’s been awhile since he thought of the younger boy, his first same-sex kiss. The boy who Dean fell for but had to tear himself away. Robin showed Dean exactly who he was, and why his life can never work out how he wants it to.

“After I couldn’t look at the world the same. There wasn’t any going back to pretending to be someone that I’m not, even if it meant my life was going to be ten times harder than it should. Listening to other kids making fun of each other, using gay like it’s an insult. Targeting others who were even the slightest bit flamboyant, beating them up. Getting asked day after day why I wasn’t doing anything about Amanda Sterling, the hottest girl in school who had a huge crush on me. She was nice, but not for me. Some nights when I was younger I did stay up, wondering what it might feel like to look at a girl and feel _ something _. Thought that I didn’t meet the right girl but… it was all bluff. Inside I knew there was no right girl, and over the years I learned that was okay.”

“Other people might spout all this bullshit that what I feel is wrong. That I’m just confused. But I remember what it felt like kissing my first boy and… and how _ great _ it felt. How could _ that _ be wrong?”

Glancing at Claire he sees her eyes brimming with unshed tears. The pillow in her arms is crushed tight against her chest. “Maybe there is the right girl though,” she whispers, “Why are you so sure… How can you be… what if you didn’t have to feel that way? Risking everything because you have this funny little idea of what’s going on when you can’t really tell if it’s supposed to be like that?”

Dean frowns, suspicion rising. Claire stares at a corner in her room, unable to meet his gaze. “I did risk everything,” Dean tells her, “It wasn’t a cakewalk, and there were times I felt like it would be easier to swallow my heart and marry some poor girl. But then I realize how unfair it’d be to her, to me, and to anyone else we involved. You’re right, though, it’s hard to understand something, especially when I had no one there to tell me how I feel. I knew how I was supposed to… but because I didn’t fit the mold I thought there was something broken inside. Until one day I rolled with it, trusting that I knew my body better than anybody else.”

“Was it that easy?” she asks, “Do you not have any… doubts?”

“When I’m feeling really bad I do,” Dean admits, “it’s not a clear-cut path. Some days I fumble. But I don’t give up.”

“If you could change it would you? To be normal?”

Dean bristles. “This _ is _ my normal. Even knowing all the fallout that would come I wouldn’t change a thing.”

Claire falls quiet, hiding her face in the pillow and behind a curtain of blonde hair. He waits for her to say something, wringing his hands in worry. Finally she speaks up again. “Being with… being with someone who you’re not supposed to… how does that feel?”

She tries to act disinterested but Dean reads the opposite from her body language. “It’s… hard to describe,” he starts, “scary, because you could be caught at any moment. Know that if got out everything will change. But also… freeing. Because when you’re with someone you care about in that way you feel like nothing _ truly _ matters. You get to be the person you always wanted to be because that’s how they see you.” Biting his lip, Dean decides to ask a question that’s been lingering since they started this conversation. “Claire, are you -?”

“What?” she yelps, looking at him, “Why would you even think that?”

“It’s okay if you are, Claire,” he says, “Or if you’re… _ questioning _. Unsure. I’m probably the only person who you can talk to about stuff like that.”

Claire scowls at him. “Oh, sure. Like you really care.”

“What?”

“You’re only in this for my dad,” she scoffs at him, “to get in his pants. He’s not going to like you for trying to turn his daughter gay, Dean! For getting close to me or to Jack, so you can stop pretending!”

Dean takes the punches, knowing she’s lashing out recklessly. She only wants to hurt him, can see the fear in her eyes. Punishing him for causing it seemed like the best choice. It’s something he did when he was younger, pushing away people who wanted to help. Dean won’t let her shut him out. “Claire,” he says, “I’m sorry you had to find out the way you did. I wouldn’t have told you at all because these… _ feelings _ I have for Cas are - are mine to deal with. I let them get out of hand and trust me I’ve been suffering for it. That’s my problem to deal with. But they are not why I hang around you or Jack.”

“You two are _ amazing _ . I’d care about you even if I didn’t like your dad a lot… You remind me so much of myself, and Jack of Sammy when he was younger. Maybe at times I overstepped boundaries, believed I was _ more _ than your father’s friend. But every time I did all I wanted was to help. To make you guys happy. Because when you were I… I was too. And I liked being happy.”

She sniffs, the tears threatening to fall cascading down her cheeks like a waterfall. Claire wipes it away with the back of her hand, hiccuping a sob.

“So don’t,” he continues, sternly, “don’t assume that I’m only here for Cas. I’m here for you and Jack, too.”

He waits for her to speak, having said all he could. It’s a tense few minutes where Claire’s crying dominates the space. She stops, however, and glances at him. “I…” she starts, shakily, “I thought I liked guys, well enough. Before moving I had this boyfriend, Todd? It wasn’t anything special but I _ had _ a _ boyfriend _ . But then I moved here and… and I met someone who makes me question everything I ever felt. It’s more powerful than what I had with Todd and… sometimes I catch myself thinking of her when I know I shouldn’t. Of us hugging, holding hands… _ kissing _ . Made me really… _ confused _. I didn’t really know what to think, except that something was wrong with me -”

“Nothing,” Dean tells her, “There’s _ nothing _ wrong with you, Claire.”

She gasps, a fresh round of tears gathering to spill over the edge. Dropping the pillow Claire scrambles forward and draws Dean into a hug. Shocked, Dean’s arms hang at his sides until he slowly wraps them around her.

“Thank you,” she says, “I… I _ really _ needed to hear that.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean anything -”

“Not about that,” Claire says, “About dad…”

“Don’t apologize for it either,” Dean chuckles, “All I said was I’m gay, not that I was smart. It’s not the first guy I had to get over and it won’t be the last.” Drawing back, he smirks. “Although if you could keep it between us for the time being…?”

Claire nods, easing the turmoil rocking his stomach. “Good,” he says, standing, “Now we’re going to go downstairs, watch a movie, and throw away all this mopey sadness, okay? Come down after you’ve washed your face.”

He moves to leave when Claire calls for him. “You know,” she says, grinning, “you’re pretty cool for a gay guy.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “We’re all cool. We’re _ fabulous _.” Leaving, Dean practically floats down to the first floor. Lighter than he’s felt in years.

Jack raises a brow at his good mood. “What took you guys so long?”

“Had to deal with something,” Dean waves him off, “Did you pick a movie?”

He holds up the plastic container for _ The Little Mermaid _, Ariel’s face beaming at him. “We’re watching this.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “I’m gonna get the popcorn. Pop it into the VHS.”

When he comes back, popcorn in hand, Claire sits with Jack on the sofa. She pats the seat in the middle, “Hurry up. This is one of my favorite movies!”

Rolling his eyes he flicks the light off before joining them. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a Disney girl.”

“The songs are nice,” she huffs, blushing, “And Ariel is… I like her, okay?”

Dean throws an arm over her shoulders. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

The movie starts up, Dean sinking into the cushions, flanked on either side by a Novak. Sitting with them eases the pain of knowing his heart was pinned on a man who would never return his affections. But also makes letting go all the more difficult.


	14. More Than a Friend

Dinner in the Novak household seems livelier when Dean joins them. Jack bounces in his seat, as if he hadn’t seen Dean earlier at the diner. And Claire smiles with a genuine gleam that surprises Castiel. Usually she kept the cool facade most teenagers don’t abandon until hidden away in their rooms up when around the other man. Yet lately the mask slips and Castiel glimpses his daughter showing a side he hasn’t seen since they moved to Lebanon. He’d be more jealous if it was with anyone besides Dean, the man a miracle worker. And as for him… Castiel can’t begin to describe how Dean Winchester affects him.

So he distracts, carrying in the pie from the kitchen. Castiel lays it on the table with a flourish. “I hope you all have room left,” he says, “otherwise Gabriel will be very disappointed…”

Dean chuckles with knife in hand. Ready to divide the pastry when given the signal. “He make this special for us?” he asks, “Didn’t have to… but I’ll appreciate it like all the others.”

Castiel rolls his eyes, sitting across from him. “Nonsense,” he waves the idea away, “Gabriel only wants our opinion on the flavor. It’s a new recipe he’s trying out for the summer rush… something about balancing the rhubarb with the cinnamon?”

“Haven’t had rhubarb pie in years,” Dean sighs, salivating enough that a teardrop of spit trails out the corner of his mouth towards his chin. He tried catching it with his tongue, only missed by a breadth and a beat. The sight stirs up all the confusion weighing down Castiel’s soul. Heat pooling in his stomach.

He snatches the knife from Dean’s hand and begins cutting. “Then we shouldn’t keep you waiting…” Castiel slices into the flaky crust, filling oozing at the wound. After freeing a piece for Dean he plates it and hands it over. Their eyes connect over the warm pie, Castiel’s grip tightening against the ceramic.

A heady rush shoots up his spine and spreads across his brain. Activating parts of it that he knows shouldn’t awaken from a simple glimpse of emerald green. Seeing a little twinkle in the pupil, an invitation to sink deeper into the abyss, Castiel realizes how long they’ve been standing like this. On the brink of falling forward into an unknown.

Like a week ago Castiel pulls back before a foot steps over the line.

Castiel kept as quiet as he could when walking through the door. If only he didn’t succumb to the urge to take a final peek at his friend and children. It was cuter when not blocked by a window pane. Jack tucked under Dean’s arm and Claire’s head resting comfortably on his shoulder. Although with his neck bent at an odd angle Castiel was sure he would awake with a horrible crick.

But then a loud snore cut through the silence, startling Castiel backwards into the coffee table. He hissed a curse then covered his mouth, afraid. Only one figure stirred.

Dean blinked into awareness, twitching in combat with sleepiness. His gaze focused on Castiel, the brightness dimming somewhat. About to move, Castiel cautioned him into gentleness. Castiel helped him stand without waking his children. Jack cuddled a pillow as easily as he did Dean’s side, and Claire didn’t need much convincing to shift.

They tiptoed towards the door, Dean grabbing his coat. “You need me to help clean up?”

Castiel shook his head. “You’ve already done so much for me already,” he whispered, “I can take care of that.”

Dean shuffled in the hallway, fiddling with his zipper. “Y’know,” he started, unable to look at Castiel, “figured I’d be here all night. You’re… home surprisingly early for a date.”

He blushed, hand creeping up to his neck. “I wouldn’t have done that,” he said, “your time is as valuable as mine. Besides…” Castiel stuttered on a breath, unsure why nerves sprung up to strangle his throat.

Dean finally glanced at him, curiosity brightening his eyes. “Besides what?”

“I…” he trailed off again, the words sitting on his tongue but too afraid to jump off. Why they wouldn’t Castiel couldn’t guess, for even he didn’t know exactly what he wanted to say. Dean didn’t rush him. Waiting for Castiel to speak Dean drifted closer, his small smile blossoming wider into an enchanting grin.

Soon Castiel didn’t ever want to speak, preferring to exist in this bubble of endless possibility.

Jack whined from the couch, “_ Dean _…”

They stepped apart, the other man leaping away from Castiel. Wasting no time he zipped up his jacket. “I should be getting home,” he mumbled, “Sam’s probably waiting and… tell them I said bye, all right?”

Castiel nodded, locking the door after Dean’s exit. Resting his forehead against the cool wood, he stayed there until his heart beat a more soothing rhythm.

He reflects on that moment as he had every night prior. Losing sleep cataloging the microexpressions hidden in Dean’s face. Hoping that he remembered it right and that an answer was there if he examined it close enough. Castiel was not used to facing a problem he can't solve. All his life, every confusing equation or long drawn out spreadsheet, had a clear solution. Except his abilities fail him. Feelings and emotions unquantifiable, no matter how hard he tries.

Even now he scrapes and destroys his pie, too focused on his thoughts to pay attention to the table. Dean’s appreciative moans filter through the white noise buzzing in his ears alongside Claire’s sniping comments. He doesn’t notice Jack making a mess either, tearing into the pie with as much gusto as Dean. Impassively Castiel watches Dean roll his eyes and lean forward with a napkin to clean away the rhubarb staining his son’s cheeks. Fond exasperation in every wipe reminds him so much of Kelly. His heart squeezes at the sight.

Is that the root of his problem? Has his body sided with his family, holding him hostage unless he find someone to fill the hole she left so many months ago?

They were very disappointed when Castiel explained why he and Hannah wouldn’t be going on a second date. “You’re so picky, Castiel,” Becky sighed, flinging a helping of mashed potatoes onto his plate, “She was such a nice girl - and _ interested _ in you!”

“She couldn’t stop gushing about your date,” Jo added, “kept saying how much of a gentleman you were.”

Castiel kept his gaze trained on his plate, mixing the peas and potatoes to calm his nerves. “While that’s swell and all, I can’t very well lead her on,” he said, “Hannah and I got along but there wasn’t anything _ more _ there -”

“That’s no reason to call it quits, Castiel,” Chuck said.

He bristled. “If my _ heart _ wasn’t in it -”

“There’s your problem. For such a smart boy you’ve always followed your heart too damn much,” he interrupted, “Every time you have it’s only led you to heartbreak.”

“So I shouldn’t look for _ love _ in my _ marriage _?” Castiel scoffed, glaring across the table at his father. Chuck paid no mind to the daggers shot his way.

Becky laid a hand on his shoulder, drawing his ire. “You know your father didn’t mean it like that,” she said, “it’s just… you tend to go for these bright flames, Castiel. And while they’re very pretty they burn out too quickly. What you need is a low fire, a simmering heat. Sure it might not be much in the beginning but, over time, you can really notice a change. You think back and can’t remember there ever being a time when you weren’t this warm and the next thing you realize you’re in love!”

Castiel’s irritation ebbed away, Becky’s wisdom a piece of driftwood he clung too while the rest of his body revolted. “I get that, but…” he sighed, “I don’t think I can even work up to _ that _ with Hannah.” Like there was no room on his stovetop for her pot.

Jo twinged, fork scraping across the plate. “Such a defeatist attitude, Castiel. _ Why _ are you so _ scared _?”

He couldn’t explain to her, to anyone, that he wasn’t scared. Castiel didn’t understand what he felt except no desire to find anyone to take on what Kelly once was.

“So you’re comfortable being a single father?” Becky asked, frowning, “Do you think that’s fair to your children? To have them grow up without a mother?”

“She isn’t dead mom.”

“But she isn’t here,” Chuck said, “So stop saving her a seat at your table.”

Chuck was wrong, though. Because from what he sees there’s no chair available for his ex-wife if she suddenly decided to show up this late into their life in Lebanon.

They finished dessert rather quickly. “Dad,” Claire starts, standing from the table, “I’m gonna be on the phone for a bit. Alex was telling me this story earlier and I promised I’d call her back after dinner.”

“Sure,” he smiles, waving her off, “don’t be on it all night, though.”

“Can I watch TV dad?” Jack asks.

“Of course.”

He turns to Dean, “We kept going back to Blockbuster because everytime we went, someone always checked out the Great Mouse Detective. But yesterday, when we went, it was _ there _! Have you ever seen it, Dean?”

Dean winces, “Sorry, Jack. Can’t say I have. Me and mice aren’t on the best of terms…”

“But it’s so cool!” Jack gushes, “there’s this one mouse, and he’s like a detective. And this other one’s his sidekick. Together they take care of this little girl who’s dad -”

“Jack,” Castiel cuts through his son’s excited rambling, “you don’t want to spoil the movie for Dean, do you?”

His son wildly shakes his head. “Do you want to come watch it with me?” he asks Dean.

“Maybe another time,” Dean says, glancing at Castiel, “Someone should stay behind and help your father clean up this mess.”

Castiel’s face heats up, a cloud of dread circling in his lungs. “Nonsense, Dean,” he says, “I’m okay with -”

“You cooked all this for me,” Dean said, “well… not the pie. But you _brought pie_. It’s the least I can do, really.”

They could argue, although Castiel is sure he would lose. Dean is stubborn about the smallest things. Like waving milkshakes off their bill or sitting with them when the diner is packed. He’s also stubborn about large things, too. Keeping secrets that Castiel would give anything to know.

He slowly rises, gathering plates. “Fine. I wash, you put away?”

“Always.”

It takes two trips, Dean balancing plates and glasses dangerously on his arms. He fakes wobbling near the sink, Castiel startling into action. Only Dean recovers instantly and drops it all in the sink gracefully, grinning wickedly. Castiel aborts his jump halfway through, using the momentum to shove his friend. Dean laughs and knocks Castiel in retaliation.

Castiel lays his hands on Dean’s shoulders and pushes. His friend stays rooted to the spot, in fact advancing. Boxing him in with the counter digging into his lower back. Dean’s arms brace his sides and his smile seemed to crack his face in two. Freckles gleaming on his face under the light.

He realizes their closeness too late, one of Dean’s legs brushing against one of his. Strength sapped, his arms bend. The only thing keeping them up is the tight grip Castiel has on Dean’s shirt. The flannel soft and comforting in his hands.

Dean’s stare intensifies. Adding to the weight crushing Castiel’s heart. His easy grin falls into one more genuine and fragile as the plates he played with. Lips trembling with anticipation. Castiel can’t tear his eyes away from them.

Somehow he does. Clears his throat and finds the will to put space between them. “We should get started…”

“...Yeah…” Dean nods, a fog still blanketing his gaze. Castiel wonders about it for a second before clearing it from his mind. Instead he stands by the dishwasher, waiting for Dean to hand him the first plate.

For once they handle this chore in silence. Meaning Castiel can dissect the past few minutes in peace. The way he and Dean drifted further into each other’s orbits naturally. While terrifying an undercurrent of bliss rushed through his veins recalling how close they were. His cheeks still burned and, peeking briefly at Dean, he noticed how the other man’s neck hadn’t recovered.

Dean’s skin was used to such a ruddy complexion as Castiel saw it on him more often than his usual. So did Dean have these same doubts? Question where they stand to each other?

Is that the secret he won’t tell Castiel?

If it was, it would make sense why he hadn’t brought up Castiel’s behavior in the past week.

He retreated into a shell whenever visiting Colette’s. Time lost all meaning and it blurred, leaving as quickly as he arrived. Castiel spoke with Dean but he couldn’t remember exactly what they discussed. Except once during a conversation where Castiel was counting freckles on Dean’s face rather than listening. Hearing the word ‘chaps’ he impulsively said, “I’ve worn those.”

“...What?”

“Chaps?” Castiel grimaced, “Once, in college, there was this costume party. A few of my friends convinced me to do the Village People for kicks, and I drew the cowboy. Except by the end of the night I got so drunk I think I left in _ only _ the chaps…” Looking up Castiel saw Dean sitting slack jawed. “Dean?”

“I was talking chap_ stick _ . Charlie’s tired of me complaining ‘bout the cold and my lips...” he mumbled, throat scratchy, “you were… a _ cowboy _?”

Castiel imploded, refusing to say anything further. Dean recovered from the stupor and tried laughing it off. Nothing would save him except the bill. Tipping generously so Dean could forget what he heard.

Luckily when he came to pick Claire and Jack up the next day Dean didn’t mention it. He suspiciously swept every awkward encounter they shared recently under the rug instead of obsessing over it like Castiel. While it saved Castiel the worry, some warning bells rung in his head. Because experience with Dean showed that as long as it wasn’t _ his _ problem, he wouldn’t have any trouble bringing it up.

Although now with the possibility he presented, Dean probably doesn’t mention Castiel’s missteps to save _ himself _ the trouble. Dean also has reservations about breathing life into the strange shape their friendship has become.

But with both neither to address it, will Castiel ever get answers? Will he have to accept the darkness as his new normal until it fades into the background. Can he be happy with that? Or is that the final piece that drives Castiel crazy.

He blinks and Dean’s wiping his hands on the dish towel. “That was quick,” he says.

“Yeah…”

Dean moves to say something, hand stretched out. In the next moment it curls on itself and he stuffs it into his pocket. The gesture leaves Castiel at a lost, unable to form his own words.

So Castiel finishes loading the dishwasher, pouring the dish soap in and setting it. Stepping away Castiel turns to attempt another conversation with his friend. Only Dean is no longer in the kitchen.

“Dean?” Castiel says, spinning around. Assured Dean isn’t hiding Castiel advances further into the house. Checks an empty dining room and finds only Jack in the living room strangely absorbed by the news.

He walks back into the hall worried Dean left. While rude he wouldn’t put it past his friend. It’s also a tactic Castiel would use. Thankfully on his way to the kitchen he spots the familiar purple plaid. Dean stands out in his backyard.

Immediately Castiel moves to join him, detouring only to grab a few beers from his fridge. The sliding of his door doesn’t disturb the other man, too captivated by the sky. When Castiel joins him he sees why.

Stargazing was a favored hobby of his when he was younger. Staring at the stars and memorizing the distances away from Earth made all the problems dominating his life seem small. Like a fighting family or a lonely childhood. As he grew up there was less and less time to look up. After all these years it never gets less beautiful.

“Small towns,” Dean says, “gotta love them.”

“They do make it perfect for nights like these.” Castiel holds a hand towards Dean, face still turned to the sky, “Beer?”

“Thanks.”

They watch the sky through the gnarled branches of his barren trees, standing on a thin coating of snow from earlier. Castiel’s fingers twitch from the cold and he can see his breath ghosting from his lips, yet he doesn’t want to leave. Stars do what they always do and help him clear his head. Being this close to Dean seems manageable.

“You do this often?”

Dean hums, tapping at his bottle. “Not all the time. Gramps used to take me and Sammy to this field whenever he’d visit. First we’d launch some fireworks he always brought with him, and then we’d laid down on this blanket he said our grandma made years ago. One time we fell asleep out there… John was pissed as all hell but gramps took the blame. Although that was probably when dad…”

“He what?”

“John didn’t like having gramps visit,” Dean continued, “probably because they’d always get into fights. He threatened to take me and Sammy if John didn’t shape up. Quit drinking and crying himself to sleep. I… I heard a lot of their fights. One nasty bender when I was young John got pretty messed up. Locked in his room and wouldn’t stop yelling. I called Gramps and he came right away. John went to stay with an old friend of his while me and Sammy came to stay here.”

“You were in Lebanon before?”

Dean sucks in a deep breath, sneaking a look from the corner of his eye. Captivated by the natural beauty beside him Castiel gasped at the stars he glimpsed in Dean’s gaze. “Not for long, maybe a week or two ‘fore my craptastic father sobered up and drove all the way to get us. Burned his bridge as he left telling gramps to never visit us again…”

Seeing the other man drift into darker thoughts, Castiel reaches forward to snake a firm hand on his wrist. Startled, Dean fully faces Castiel. “What did you get up to while here in Lebanon?” he asked.

“Well, uh…” Dean thinks, sipping at his beer to buy time. “Took us to the library, killed a lot of time there. S’where I figured out reading didn’t suck so much when you had books you liked and time to actually enjoy ‘em…”

“I’m surprised we never ran into each other there,” Castiel said, “I practically lived in the library growing up.”

“Would’ve been nice to see you as a little kid, Cas,” Dean smiles, “not that I’d think you’d be any different than you are now. But hilarious to see such a small child act like a grown adult.”

Castiel huffs. “I wasn’t that bad.”

“Says the kid who grew up in a library, practically…”

He rolls his eyes. “Did you do anything else?”

Dean bites his lip, shifting on his feet. “You remember that weird festival thing they used to put on?”

“The Fall Festival?” Castiel says, “Funny, you’re not the first person to mention it. They’re bringing it back next year… did you go?”

He nods. “Gramps took me and Sammy and let us have fun. Rode the rides, ate _ tons _ of those snacks that’re bad for you. Played carnival games even though they were _ so _ rigged. Except Sam somehow managed to knock all these bottles down no matter how the teller stacked them. Guy got so fed up with us he said we could pick out whatever prize we wanted and… he chose this huge slinky. Gave it to me and we spent the rest of the weekend playing with it.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“It was…” Dean’s smile flipped, dimples popping into view. “Then dear ol’ John showed his face and wouldn’t let me take it with us. ‘You’re too old for toys, Dean’ and ‘it’s colored all girly, what are you some _ fairy _’?” He chuckled, the joke lost on Castiel. “I got the last laugh, though. Gramps kept it tucked away in his attic after all these years…” His expression softens, eyes glistening. “When I found it I lost it. With the funeral and the move, everything was up in the air. So scared I wouldn’t be able to start over here in Lebanon… Although that slinky reminded me how nice a time I had here. It was possible. And I owed it to Sam and to… to gramps to try.”

Castiel squeezes his wrist hearing him talk about his past. Emotions he better understood well up in his own chest, and after spending so long repressing and fighting other feelings he gladly shares these. “However brief your time here was during your childhood, I’m thankful it was good.”

“Me too. Except, when I was younger, every time I thought about it, it made me sad. How I could never go back,” Dean admits, “but that happy kind of sad where your face hurts…”

“Funny that all you wanted to do was return, when I couldn’t wait to leave this town behind me.”

Dean arches a brow, “What’re you talking ‘bout?”

He drinks some of his own liquid courage before digging in. “I thought of Lebanon as a sinkhole. People who move never leave, and everyone knows each other’s names… their business. I didn’t have much going for me except my family - barely enough friends to count on my hand. No matter what my parents or my siblings tried, all the love they showered me with, I couldn’t help feeling rather _ lonely _ . If I stayed I was afraid I would only continue feeling this way. Continue being the person I _ was _. That’s why, after college, I didn’t come back to the nest with Amelia. Accepted a job in Illinois and created a life for myself there instead of in a place that’s disappointed me all my life.”

“I’m… I’m sorry to hear that,” Dean says, “Makes me wish we did run into each other back then, at least once. Maybe I could’ve given you a day worth remembering.”

“I would have loved that, too, but…” Castiel rubs his thumb against Dean’s wrist, smiling, “Who knows how much one day could change the present, though. Getting to know you now, grow closer… I can definitely say the wait was worth it. You’re a special man, Dean. The one thing I never expected to find by moving back home…”

It was a mistake empathising with Dean. Because letting slip one confession opened the gate for more to come pouring out. Things Castiel thought about his friend that he never wanted to say to him being said with no way to stop it.

“It’s strange,” he chuckles, “I’ve lived here for most of my life and I couldn’t recall a single thing that would make me think twice about leaving. Now, if I were forced somewhere else by unforeseen complications, I’d hurt my neck trying to get another glimpse of you and your diner. You… you’ve become so important to me, Dean. My favorite part of Lebanon, of my _ day _ -”

“Cas…”

“And it was so easy,” Castiel sighs, staring up at the sky yet again, “You wedged yourself into my life without really trying and I have difficulty remembering how I managed before. Why I fought my parents so hard all those times before… it’s a blur. But then it got complicated...”

“Complicated?” Dean asks, “What are you saying?”

“I don’t think we’re friends,” Castiel admits. The other man tenses at his side but Castiel carries on. “At least, we _ were _ friends, once. Now… I’m not sure. This thing between us I… I can’t call it friendship. It’d be a disservice. So I’m trying to - trying to wrap my head around all these changes; a lot of changes because it’s all been happening over these months and it’s only been hitting me these last few days. I’ve never felt so lost and confused but so sure that whatever’s between us is _ right _, y’know?”

He gasps, drawing Castiel’s focus to him. The tears are clearer to him now even in such dim lighting, pooling at the corner of his eyes. He smiles, lips trembling. “Exactly.”

Encouraged, Castiel grasps onto the closest explanation he can think of to describe their bond. “Dean, I… when I think of you I see -”

Dean kisses him.

His lips press against Castiel’s and steal any sort of peace away, rug pulled from under his feet. Castiel falls into a chasm of unexpected sensations. Nerves tingling like old candy he used to sneak from Gabriel’s stash that shocked his cheeks until he was sore. Dean tastes of beer and rhubarb, combining in a perfect flavor reminding him of comfort and home. When time restarts the other man pulls away, lashes fluttering as he opens his eyes. Castiel sees in Dean’s gaze the utter adoration that should have been obvious to spot - if he knew the rules of the game they were playing.

“I see a…,” Castiel mumbles, still reeling from the kiss and attempting to finish his sentence, “ a brother…”

Heartbreak isn’t physical. Except how else could Castiel explain the sun eclipsed from Dean’s eyes and the shattering crack he hears.

Dean jerks his wrist out of Castiel’s hold. “What?”

“I thought we were,” he searches for a way to salvage the moment, except everything that he speaks fits oddly and _ wrong _ in his mouth. “I thought maybe you saw us as family and - and me as another Sam. If I… If I had known…”

If he had known would Castiel have attempted this path in the first place. If he had known would Dean’s actions make much more sense to him. If he had known would he never understand the magic of kissing Dean Winchester?

Shaking those thoughts away Castiel clings to the present. Being distracted by possibilities wouldn’t help them now. Except in that momentary lapse Dean scurried away, the sound of the back door slamming alerting him of his plan.

“Dean!” Castiel calls after him, “Dean!”

He races inside catching sight of the other man grabbing his jacket. Jack parrots him, Dean’s answer to his son the same as him - silence. The front door opens as Castiel runs after Dean.

Dean storms over to his car with hunched shoulders and balled fists, ready to lash out at the next unsuspecting person. Castiel follows regardless. “Dean, we need to talk -”

“You’ve already said more than enough.”

“No, no, we still need to -”

“I’m sorry Cas,” Dean rounds on him, face stained with tear tracks, “I’m so sorry I came into your life. That I had this big, stupid crush on you that got in the way of an _ amazing _ friendship. I… I tried to stop myself, I did, but…” He bites his lip, a wry smile stretching the corners of his mouth. “It doesn’t matter does it?” he mumbles, “I mean… everyone else is gonna know soon enough, right? I… I promised myself I’d never… and it’s happening all over again.” Dean spins on his heel, “I need to _ go _.”

Castiel tries one last time. He reaches for Dean’s shoulder, “Please, if you come inside -”

Dean throws him off. “I’m not worth it Cas. Let it go.”

Faced with such strong conviction and refusal would breathe new life into Castiel’s stubbornness. For once in his life, though, it quiets. He watches as Dean starts up his car and drive into the night.

And he doesn’t know how he feels about that.


	15. Setting Him Straight

Castiel stares at the doorbell in fear, finger hovering with barely an inch of space between and the echo of its ringing rewinding in his mind. Drowning out the calm reasoning that told him this was a good idea. Replaced with an anxious desire to run and turn this visit into a prank. If only his legs weren’t trapped in imaginary quick sand.

In his indecision he misses the ever-growing stomps barreling towards him. The door swings open, revealing his disheveled brother in a hastily thrown on bathrobe. “Cassie,” Gabriel growls, rubbing at his eyes, “what the _ fuck _ are you doing here at this hour?”

Moving his mouth requires more effort than it should. “I… I need to talk to you.”

“It couldn’t have waited until morning.”

“It’s not that late.”

Gabriel rolls his eyes, “For you, maybe. _ I _ gotta be up bright and early to fill an order for a bridal party.”

Castiel glances to his left, staring into the darkened storefront of his brother’s bakery. Immediately his stress takes a backseat as Castiel fully understands the mistake he made. At the time Gabriel seemed like the best choice. He won’t ask invasive questions like Anna or Becky. And he would _ care _ about his problem, unlike Michael or Nick. Gabriel wasn’t his first choice. Given the circumstances Castiel cannot go to anyone else.

Castiel couldn’t talk to Dean about _ Dean _.

“Hey!” Gabriel snaps his fingers in his face, drawing him from his thoughts, “Earth to Cassie? Don’t leave me now that I’m up.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, wringing his hands, “I should have… called. Or-or something. I can go -”

Gabriel waves him off, yawning. “You’re already here, aren’t you? Come on… lemme put on a pot of coffee and then we can hash out whatever’s bothering you.”

He nods, following his brother up the stairs and into the apartment. The industrial oven may have been off for hours yet the smell of baked goods wafts regardless of the time. Suffused into the walls of the building after years spent making treats and goodies below.

“I’d apologize for the mess,” Gabriel says as they enter his cluttered living room, “but that’d be a lie.”

Castiel scowls at the pile of dirty laundry stacked into a smelly pyramid in the plastic hamper. “Obviously…”

“Oh lighten up,” he rolls his eyes, “I haven’t had the chance to go to Harton’s okay?”

“I’m surprised you have anything to wear.”

“Underwear’s reusable if you're not a quitter,” Gabriel chuckles, skeeving Castiel even further. They pass through rather quickly and move into the kitchen. “We’re not here to discuss my hygiene. Sit and tell ol’ Gabey what’s bothering you.”

Irritation rising at the teasing, Castiel ignores it and plops into one of the mismatched chairs surrounding his brother’s table. Gabriel continues towards the coffee machine, pressing the power button. It bubbles immediately. “Had this thing set for when I woke up,” he says, two mugs in hand, “didn’t think I’d be needing it so soon.”

“Again, my apologies -”

“Save it, I’ll call in my favor next time.” For a moment there’s no sound besides the percolation. Castiel watches Gabriel tap an uneven rhythm, mugs slapping against each other. “If you’re only gonna stare at me then I’m making all this coffee for nothing.”

He sighs, heart stuttering in his chest. “Sorry,” Castiel says, “it’s… I find it very hard to explain myself. On the way here I was going over it and now that I’m here…”

Gabriel steps closer, sitting next to him. Mugs forgotten he reaches over and lightly punches him on the arm. “You can speak freely with me, Cassie, you know that. I’m sure together we can find a way to get that big lug you call a best friend forgive you.”

His breath catches and he squeezes his knees. “What? I didn’t - how did you know this was about Dean?”

“Because the whole town can’t stop talking ‘bout the man,” Gabriel scoffs, “Every day rumors fly back and forth in my shop about why Colette’s been closed for so long. The only time that happened was when he bought the place from ol’ Cain. For him to not even have someone running it _ for _ him… wouldn’t have bet my money that it was your fault.”

“It’s not _ my _ fault…” Castiel grouses, slumping further in his seat. His pout stretches to his chin, “At least… not entirely.”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” his brother prods, brows raised, “What kind of trouble shook up your paradise?”

Castiel’s nerves tense at the comparison, briefly considering the wild idea that Gabriel somehow knew. Sneaking a glance at his brother Castiel sees the worried confusion shining in his eyes, and he breathes easier. Helps the truth rise closer to the surface. The entire night bubbles up his throat like vomit, pressing against his teeth. But then he remembers Dean’s face before he escaped in his car. The accepted defeat haunting his expression. Like he knew Castiel would tell what happened in his backyard.

It would make his shoulders lighter, the burden less heavy if he shares. But in sparing his own life he would condemn Dean’s.

Castiel swallows his words. Fights against every instinct to out his friend, respecting his feelings and privacy. Kiss or no kiss, Dean is his friend. Who he misses dearly. Any reconciliation would fail immediately if Castiel did exactly what Dean expected.

“Recently,” he starts, “Dean and I experienced a… _ failure _ to _ communicate _ . A _ misunderstanding _ of sorts… we both had differing expectations about a certain event and, before I could explain myself, Dean… ran away.”

“And you haven’t tracked him down to set yourself straight?”

He snorts. “Easier said than done.”

“What does that mean?” Gabriel asks, slapping his shoulder, “English, Cassie.”

Castiel scowls, glaring at the coffee table as he reflects on his first attempt to apologize - his _ only _ attempt. “After a day or two to… _ compose _ myself, I journeyed over to Colette’s.”

Composure was the farthest thing from Castiel’s mind that Monday. He replayed the kiss and Dean’s swift exit on a loop the entire weekend, drifting through his house like a ghost. Face frozen like he saw one.

Both his children avoided his walking corpse. Jack attempted to on that disastrous Friday evening, firing question after question. “Why did Dean leave?” “Will he be back?” “Is he okay?” “Why are you looking so pale, dad?”

“Go to bed, Jack.” He didn’t stay downstairs long enough to make sure his son listened.

Claire picked up on his mood immediately, taking over and helping with Jack since he couldn’t. Shame filled him in the moments he drifted from his spell to see Claire stirring a pan or helping Jack with his homework. Their eyes met once, when she was telling him about how Alex was driving her and Jack to school tomorrow. He recognized the fearful storm brewing behind her gaze. Very similar to the kind in Dean. That Castiel was lost to them.

That pushed him to shed his funk and start making things right.

After seeing his children leave for school Castiel readied himself to see Dean again. Showered, shaved, and decided - at length - on an appropriate outfit. When he was comparing two different shirts in the mirror Castiel met his reflection and realized how ridiculous he was being. As if he was getting ready for a date. He chose at random and hurried towards his car.

The entire ride over to Colette’s Castiel focused more on what he would say than on the road. A few sentences into his apology he would trash the entire attempt, deeming it not perfect enough. The closer he got to Colette’s the faster his heart beat. Palms sweating, he could barely shudder a breath.

Dean could have already banned him, Charlie kicking him out before he could say a word. Or, if that weren’t the case, a scenario where he tried and explained to his friend existed. And even after his plea to remain friends, Dean still wouldn’t believe him. Thinking their relationship beyond repair. That idea sent a shard of ice threw his heart. A slim chance where Dean treated him like nothing happened existed, although Castiel thought this too lucky. And maybe, if they spoke in private, Dean would try and kiss him again. Ice melted, and a rush of heat flooded his being imagining them kissing in Dean’s office.

Castiel swerved into an open spot, shoving that thought away. “You’re not gay,” he mumbled, “you’re _ not _ gay…”

He couldn’t prepare for an empty diner.

Peering into the barren dining space, Castiel couldn’t believe how dead it looked. Lights off, chairs upturned - like no one had ever eaten there. Colette’s was barren and depressing without its owner.

Exactly how Castiel felt.

“I ran over to a payphone, thinking maybe he was in the kitchen or his office,” Castiel says, “no one picked up.”

Gabriel hummed, pouring coffee into two mugs. “No one?” he asked, bringing the coffee over, “Not even a server? A cook?”

Castiel accepted the drink with a small smile. “Nope,” he tells him, “I waited an hour, thinking maybe I was early. Except I found out Colette’s hadn’t been open the past two days, either.”

Bobby found him pacing by his car, worrying his thumbnail. Pulled his truck over and beckoned him closer.

“You’re gonna be waiting forever,” he said, “if you’re waiting for Dean to open shop.”

“What?”

“Colette’s closed ‘till further notice.”

Castiel’s eyes widened. “What?” he repeated, more shrill.

Bobby levelled a flat stare at Castiel. “Garth mentioned Dean was shutting up shop for a while when he brought his car in. Boy kept goin' like a broken fire hydrant, saying Dean was too kind to pay them for the month without any work. Except I’m sure you and I both know that’s a crock of shit, right?”

He swallowed past the boulder crushing his windpipe, twitching nervously. “Yes?”

“You fix this,” Bobby warned, shifting gears, “I don’t want to be eating leftovers for lunch again. Shepherd’s pie plays havoc with my cholesterol if I have it too often…”

Bobby drove off, leaving Castiel in his dust and confusion.

Gabriel huffed, doctoring his drink with obscene amounts of sugar and cream. “And, after realizing Dean wouldn’t be at his diner, you decided to go to the only other place he would be?”

Castiel shifted in his seat. “I… ran home.”

“Shit Cassie,” his brother sighed, “you’re such a pussy.”

“I know…” He sipped at his coffee, the bitter taste of the pure bean skewering his taste buds. It doesn’t compare to the overall sourness of his choice. “I figured… if he closed Colette’s he didn’t want to see me… or anybody for that matter.”

“You really believe that?”

The lie sounded horrible to his own ears. Yet he bites his tongue and doesn’t answer.

“Really, Cassie, what happened?” Gabriel asks, “I mean… I haven’t seen you this shaken up since Kelly left.”

Castiel’s breath hitched at his ex-wife’s mention. His heart slams into his gut, and his mind spirals into a flurry of flashbacks. Pelting him like a horrendous snowstorm.

Nights spent more at the office than at home, coming home when his kids were asleep. Going to bed with fewer and fewer words shared between them until they walked to the bedroom in silence. The shrugged mention of Kelly’s discussions with members of the Illinois branch of the Democratic Party, how they thought she would make a good choice for an upcoming Senate seat.

The fight once the kids went to bed. About how this would mean less time spent with their kids. “Or,” Kelly argued, “it means you can actually spend time with your kids instead of working all the goddamn time!”

“I work so they can have everything the want, Kelly.”

“Well what about what I want?” she hissed, “Huh? How come everyone gets to have their dreams fulfilled except for me, huh?”

Castiel startled, stepping back. Kelly didn’t let up, flying into a rant about how she gave up so much when she met Castiel. How she didn’t regret falling in love with him, marrying him, raising a family together. “But then you faded into the background,” she said, “Working so many hours for… for what? A better car? A longer title? Gadgets and fancy clothes that we - that we don’t need?”

“I… I thought they would make our life easier,” Castiel said, “Having money would make _ our _ life easier.”

Kelly sighed, wiping away her tears. “We could be penniless and I wouldn’t care. More money won’t fix everything… it won’t fix _ us _.”

Castiel bit his lip, drawing Kelly into a hug. He rested his chin on her head, swaying with her in his arms. “They really think you have a shot at winning?”

“I might not practice law anymore,” she said, chuckling, “but I still have my license. And they think with my background with that and as a mother would be a great spin.”

“The perfect American family angle?”

“...Yeah.”

He agreed, fixing his schedule to support her campaign. Although no matter how they presented the Novaks as a true example of the American dream, Castiel and Kelly felt each day becoming more and more like a nightmare. The perfect American family shattered halfway into Kelly’s campaign.

“But not until the election?” Kelly asked, “I… if this gets out than I lose.”

Castiel huffed into her hair, holding her in their bed. “I only want what’s best for this family - for _ you _. If I’m not that anymore… I can’t pretend for the rest of our lives. Until November? I think I can handle.”

“Thank you…”

He slept in the guest bedroom every night until the results came in, Kelly winning in a landslide victory. The next day they explained to their children exactly what was going to happen.

“But if mom’s going away why can’t we follow her?” Jack asked.

“Because your mom and I,” he looked to Kelly, frowning, “your mom and I have decided it’s better for us if we take some time… _ apart _.”

Claire knew exactly what he meant. And after some more time with Jack, he understood, too.

A month after the election he and Kelly divorced without fanfare, in a boardroom with stale bagels and lukewarm coffee.

Castiel reflects on watching Kelly hop into her car for one last time, driving away to her hotel room. Remembers how, though knowing their relationship was over for a long while, that having the papers in his hands made it too real. The ink dried and there was no more fixing. He lost the woman he loved.

It’s similar to what he felt when Dean peeled out his driveway, disappearing into the night. Similar but not the same. With Kelly it was glacially agonizing going through the motions, doing things that set his heart aglow only to find it stale. Dean and his relationship imploded with blinding speed. And while divorce was the ultimate end, Castiel can’t give up hope that him and Dean will return to their friendship. He can still fix this.

The biggest difference was in his feelings. He loved Kelly. She stole his heart between the courthouse and the coffee shop. Dean was his _ friend _ . He wedged himself into the cracks in Castiel’s life and stuck there. They both might have places in his heart, but not the _ same _ … Except his chest feels as hollow as it did when he returned home after the divorce to a _ truly _ empty house…

Castiel shakes his head, clearing away the doubt. There _ is _ a difference. A very important one.

It can’t be the same because Kelly was a woman and Dean was a _ guy _.

No matter how often he reminds himself that Dean, a man, kissed _ him _ , he still wants to pinch himself. Because that would be the only way it could make sense. Dean never gave off the typical cues that alerted normal people to such behavior. The telegraphed actions showed in television that kids learned was ‘other’ behaviour, punished for simply being not of the status quo. Habits and choices that were cursed in church and warned to avoid at home and on the playground, or else. Besides his ridiculous attractiveness, Dean was as average as every other guy. Genetics made him the _ perfect _ man.

Women wanted him and men were jealous of him. Funny, how Dean wanted nothing to do with the girls who chased him - probably jealous how free with their affections they could be. To not have their every action judged damnable or sick, to not have to worry about death with every touch.

Why Dean would choose this life, Castiel can’t understand. But what he knows is that he needs Dean in _ his _ life. Wants him by his side, willing to overlook all that he grew up with and treat him like he did before.

And, thinking about it, Dean liking him in such a way should be a compliment. Castiel managed to win the heart of the town bachelor without even trying.

Castiel laughs at this, running fingers through his hair and mussing it up.

Gabriel arches a brow. “Wanna share with the class, Cassie boy?”

Remembering his audience, Castiel hides behind his mug and finishes off his coffee. “Just thinking about how crazy this all is,” he sighs, “Stressing about whether or not Dean and I can move past this… I’ve been losing sleep. Wondering if I was a few seconds faster or if I… if I didn’t let him leave -”

“Hey,” Gabriel stops him, laying a hand on his wrist, “there’s no point in playing that game. You can’t go back to the past… or the future, for that matter.”

“Is there a point to this?”

“You can’t undo the things you did,” Gabriel continues, “but you can move forward and make up for it. Dean? Whatever the hell happened that you don’t want to tell me about… it’ll blow over. He’ll forgive you or you’ll forgive him or whatever. Wanna know why?”

Castiel rubs his thumb against the rim of his mug, frowning. “Why?”

“Because you two are great for each other,” Gabriel tells him, “If you’re tearing yourself up about this and I bet he’s doing the same. The only thing I don’t know is which one of you is going to get your head out of your ass and make the first step.”

He sets his mug down, hands clasping together. “It’s a nice thought,” he says, “but…”

Even with the extra time he had from his earlier failed attempt, Castiel cannot string together his thoughts into the apology Dean deserves. If Castiel couldn’t name the whispers of his heart than he’s sure any words offered would only ruin his and Dean’s friendship. Lying would spit on every day they’ve spent together. Dean deserves the truth.

“Fine then,” Gabriel shrugs, “sit on your ass and do nothing. Let the best friend you’ve ever had walk out like everyone else you’ve ever cared about.”

Gabriel skewers him easily, Castiel bleeding from the sniped comment. What makes it hurt worse is that Castiel agrees with him. He spoke only the truth.

So why can’t Castiel?

* * *

Castiel groans, tossing in fitful rest. His spine protests the sudden movement. Angry from the horrible conditions it suffered from being pressed against the couch. Falling asleep downstairs wasn’t a habit he indulged in, usually only realizing what happened after waking up. With how little he’s been sleeping lately it was only a matter of time before exhaustion set in and he drifted off no matter the location.

Last he remembered the living room was empty, Bob Barker’s voice in the background. Blinking awake he sees the television off and his children standing in front of him.

“Kids?” he asks, swinging himself to a sitting position, “What… what time is it? When did you get home?”

“An hour or so,” Claire says, arms folded across her chest, “Alex dropped us off.”

“You didn’t want to hang out?”

“Well with Colette’s closed there’s not many places we _ want _ to spend time at,” she tells him.

Castiel’s chest tightens, reminded of the consequences to his actions. Ten days since Dean ran away and shut down his diner. Ten days since Castiel realized Dean was gay and liked him. Ten days since Dean kissed him.

He clears his throat, brushing twitching fingers against his tingling lips. “Have you been watching me sleep the entire time?”

Claire sighs, sitting in the nearby armchair. Jack silently moves to the couch, sitting to Castiel’s left. “We hate seeing you like this,” Claire starts.

Castiel winces in agreement. As much as he tried pushing down his fear, putting on a brave face for his children, they saw through it. Like he masked all his problems with cellophane. “I don’t very much _ feeling _ like this.”

“Then do something about it,” Claire says, “This is _ stupid _.”

“It’s not stupid, Claire -”

“Really?” she scoffs, “Then why haven’t you gone to see Dean yet?”

He clears his throat, breaking from his daughter’s stare. “You shouldn’t have to worry about what goes on between Dean and I.”

“Too bad!” she huffs, “I’m your daughter and I care about you and I hate to see you act like this. I thought…” she bites her lip, shrinking into the chair, “You said coming here was supposed to be a fresh start. But you’re acting like you did when mom left…”

Castiel stiffens. “It’s not like that,” he rushes, tone surprising both her and Jack. “I mean,” he says, softening somewhat, “Dean and I… our problem isn’t what led to Kelly’s and I… _ separation _.”

“Is Dean not gonna want to hang around us anymore?” Jack asks, sniffling, “Or is he only going to visit like mom? When he can find the time?”

He frowns, considering the question. If Dean thinks he struck out with Castiel than is there any incentive for him to spend time with Claire and Jack? Castiel was assured that Dean cared for his children. After the kiss he isn’t so sure. It wouldn’t surprise him to discover his friend hung around Claire or Jack only to further develop his relationship with him. His heart, however, would be crushed into a fine paste by the overwhelming disappointment.

“Dean might or might not,” Castiel shrugged helplessly, “It all depends on how he feels.”

“Like you know how he feels,” Claire mutters.

Castiel scowls, irritation bubbling within his chest. “I have a pretty good sense of how he’s feeling, Claire.”

“Do you?” she asks, rising in pitch to meet his level, “Then why are you still here?”

Ignoring the jab he fires off his own question. “Why do you even care, Claire?”

“What?”

“Why do you care about Dean, Claire?” he asks again, desperately, “You don’t even know what happened! What Dean did! Neither of you do. So whatever I choose or choose not to do is my choice - and the same goes for Dean. He could easily seek me out, it’s not all on me!”

During his rant Castiel rose and looked down at his children. Seeing past the fog of his frustration Castiel notices how wide his children’s eyes are as they stare up at him. The tides of his emotions recede and regret fills the spaces left behind.

Claire speaks before he can apologize. “At first I didn’t like Dean,” she admits, hands clasped tightly in her lap, “I thought he was annoying and… weird, and _ lame _ . Thought he was a total narc, since you and him were spending so much time together. Acting like your spy, reporting back to you everything he heard. But Dean does this thing where he… he _ grows _ on you. Whether you want him to or not. He cares so fiercely about you that you can’t help but do the same. It’s annoying, really.”

Castiel forces an awkward chuckle. “I’ll say.”

“And it’s nice,” she shrugs, “Knowing someone’s got your back who isn’t family. Who’s willing to step up to the plate and be there for you, not because of some… _ obligation _. But because they care about the person you are. There to help when you’re feeling at your worst and help you see that what you thought was a problem wasn’t any bad to begin with…” Claire blinks away her own tears, wearing a water-logged smile. “So now I like Dean. I like him because he likes us… and he makes you happy.”

He cannot find his voice. Claire startled him into silence with her passionate speech, and he reflects on all she said. Resonates with her views of Dean, remembering the various points on their timeline where Dean held a hand to lift Castiel from the hole he fell into. Knowing he’s done the same for his children helps quell the unfound fear that needled him.

“I like Dean, too!” Jack jumps in, smiling, “He’s really cool and we have all sorts of fun together! Whenever I’m at the diner he always gives me free milkshakes and helps me with my homework. And laughs at my jokes!”

Sighing, Castiel sits and draws Jack to his side. He holds his other arm out to Claire, smiling when she moves to take the open space next to him. “I’m really glad to hear Dean means this much to both of you.”

“He means the most to _ you_,” Claire says, “Knowing something happened between you two isn’t only hurting you two, though. _ Everyone’s _ been affected.”

“I know,” he says, “I don’t… I don’t know what to do. If he’ll want to see me... I’m afraid I…” Shrugging, he lays his head on top of hers. Tears pricking his eyes. “I’m _ afraid _.”

If Dean rejects his apology, or turns away any attempt to rekindle their friendship, Castiel won’t know what to do with himself. Trying to manage a life without Dean in a town where he has every possibility of seeing him would be as hard as attending events with Kelly on his arm but not in his bed.

“If that’s what you’re feeling than imagine what Dean is going through,” Claire tells him, “Each day that you don’t go over. He might think you hate him. That you won’t accept _ his _ apology…”

He knows what he needs to do. Castiel kisses the crown of Claire’s head, and then Jack’s. “When did you two get so wise?”

Claire laughs. “We’ve always been like this.”

“Yeah!” Jack nods, “Gabriel calls us wise all the time!”

“Well… he calls us wise-_ somethings _…”

Standing again, Castiel collects his keys and jacket. “I’m going to set things right… I don’t know how long I’ll be. But can I trust you to handle dinner?” he looks to Claire.

She nods, “I’ve been doing just fine this past week.”

Flushing, he fiddles with his keys. “Right…”

“Go!” she says, “Hurry up so we can be a family again!”

His mind stalls, turning over his daughter’s words. Implying that Dean was a part of their family - key to their happiness. Given the overwhelming evidence, he cannot dispute her claim. There’s a hole in their home with Dean gone. He plays a very important role, yet Castiel doesn’t know what that is.

Or he does, and like everything else, is too afraid to name it.

* * *

He has nothing prepared.

Castiel spent too much time on his way over repeating to himself that he cannot allow Dean to suffer under a hanging anvil any longer. Instead of spitting on their bond by chickening out and stuffing his face under the sand, he should confront his fear. Prove to Dean that he’s willing to take the first step to repair what they have. Show that he won’t allow another good thing to fly from his grasp.

How he plans to do that Castiel doesn’t know. He tries to cobble something together as he waits for someone to answer the door,

Unfortunately it’s the other Winchester.

Sam’s face shadows in anger as he recognizes him. “Castiel,” he says, voice sending chills up his spine, “what do you want?”

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “I’m here to see Dean.”

Sam tilts his chin up, making Castiel feel even smaller than he usually does in the other man’s presence. It’s obvious he knows what went down between Castiel and Dean, fists balled tight at his side. Barely restrained from reaching forward and strangling him. “Why should I let you do that?”

“Because I…” Castiel sighs, tossing away what sounds right. He chooses, instead, what he knows is true. “I don’t have any right to see him,” he tells Sam, “but I’m feeling awful, and I know he is, too.”

The other man doesn’t break from his stoic mask. Castiel readies himself to get thrown from the property, possibly handcuffed given how Sam hasn’t changed from his uniform.

Luckily nearby shuffling cuts into the tense confrontation.

“Cas?”

Castiel peers past Sam to glimpse his friend. In the few seconds he has to see him before Sam pushes him out Castiel sees many things. The unkempt scruff and messy hair. An open bathrobe and stained t-shirt. Bleary green eyes stained with redness, puffed up from obvious crying. Only one thought crosses his mind.

How it’s been too long since he’s seen his glorious face.

“Dean,” Sam hisses, “I said I’d answer it.”

“I thought I heard…” he glances at Cas, frowning, “I just… I needed to know if I wasn’t imagining -”

“Yes it’s him,” his brother sighs, “Now let me handle this and -”

“Dean,” Castiel interrupts, “Dean, please. I only want to talk.”

Sam shoves him again, following him onto the porch. “You’ve already done enough,” Sam says, “Can you just stop.”

“I’ll stop if he tells me to.”

Sighing, Sam turns and strides into the house. Castiel follows until the door slams in his face. He freezes, nose brushing against the wood.

It’s a while before the door opens once more. Enough time passing to scare Castiel into thinking Sam led Dean to his room to protect him from Castiel. So when Sam reappears Castiel flies backwards as the taller man tugs his jacket tight against him.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he says, irritation directed towards an equally disgruntled Dean, “Because I won’t be around to help when you ultimately hurt yourself again.”

“I need to see this through,” Dean says, “Just… trust me. And tell Eileen I said hi, will ya?”

Sam growls something unintelligible under his breath, stomping away towards his car. Castiel waits until Sam disappears into his car to look at Dean. The other man was already staring at them, and when their eyes met lightning struck his heart.

He _ really _ missed Dean.

“Can I?” he clears his throat, “Can I come in?”

Dean spins on his heel, shrugging. “Sure.”

Castiel hurries after Dean’s retreating figure, closing the door behind him. Following him into the living room, he sits at the far end of the couch opposite a stiff-looking Dean.

Hands glued to his knees, Castiel searches for anything to say. To break through the suffocating awkwardness blanketing them. Castiel starts by asking, “Was I the reason you closed Colette’s?”

Dean sighs, a wry smirk cracking his face. “Somewhat. After that night I… I figured no one would want to eat food served by a fag.”

He confirmed the suspicion he had earlier, that Dean expected Castiel to ruin his life by sharing his secret. “I didn’t,” Castiel tells him, “I didn’t tell anyone. No one knows how you… _ about _you.”

A weight unsettles itself from Dean’s shoulders, allowing the other man to sink into his couch. He drags a tired hand across his face, eyes closed. Dean sobs, the sound slicing through Castiel’s heart.

Suddenly Castiel reaches forward for Dean’s hand, to show support. The slightest touch makes Dean recoil, jumping from his seat. He blinks at Castiel with wide eyes and a trembling lip, uncertainty clouding his usually bright green gaze.

“Dean,” Castiel sighs, returning to his side, “I… I came here to apologize.”

“What?” Dean asks, “Why… why would you?”

“Because I’m willing to do whatever it takes for us to be friends again,” he says, doubt rearing up at the sight of Dean’s body curling into itself, “if… if that’s what you want. I… Are we… Were we friends, Dean?”

Dean whips around to face him, “Of course.” He shifts, folding one leg under the other. “I… This is my fault, man. I had a crush that got out of hand but… I didn’t get into this thinking there’d be any chance of finding happily ever after.”

Castiel frowns. “Then why?” he asks, “Why kiss me? Why have feelings for me at all? Why would you choose to do such a thing?”

“Because I don’t have a say in who my heart likes,” Dean growls, facing the silent television screen again. An image of Indiana Jones was frozen, tied up with his father in a burning room. “No matter what anyone says it isn’t a choice. One day I thought you were nice to look at and the next thing I knew I was having dreams where we were all sitting around a table - you, me, Claire and Jack. It was all normal, like we always do. Except when I brought out dinner you’d thank me with a kiss… and after we’d eat we’d gather to watch a movie and we’d cuddle under a blanket…” Dean rubs at his eye, sniffling. “And when you were talking all that shit I thought maybe you felt the same. But I was wrong. I fell for the wrong guy… _ again _. Can’t help liking straight guys, I guess…”

“So you’ve done this before?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Yeah… well, not _ this _. But you aren’t the first guy I’ve kissed.”

“...Why?”

“Because it’s nice?”

“How can it be nice when it’s -” He bites his tongue, swallowing down the instinctual argument.

It didn’t matter. Dean knew what he was going to say. He glares at Castiel, scowling. “Sinful? Damnable? A crime?” he seethes, “Well, which one is it? I’ve heard them all before.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, “I’m not used to dealing with this.”

“Dealing with this?” Dean growls, “You’ve only had ten days to process this Cas, I’ve had my _ entire life _ . Of being asked why I’m not fooling around with the chicks who hung on my every word. Having to force yourself to feel up someone you don’t like, so no one suspects anything. Being so aware of everything you say just in case you let something slip because it could be the difference between life and _ death _ . So don’t try and use this as an excuse, Castiel, because it’s a pretty _ lame _ one.”

Castiel’s jaw slackens at Dean’s admission. “If that’s the case, Dean,” he whispers, “why keep doing this? You could settle down and live a normal life.”

“But that’s not who I am,” Dean tells him, “And I won’t live a lie. Don’t ask me to do that, man. I won’t hesitate on which I’d pick, even though it’d break both our hearts.”

He shakes his head, “No, no that’s… that’s not why I’m here,” Castiel reassures, “I said I was willing to overlook -”

“Overlook,” Dean scoffs, “That ain’t any different. Sure you can overlook but can you stand to be alone with me, Castiel? Can you honestly assure me you _ accept _ me?”

Castiel wants to say that he can. Even though every time he drifts closer to Dean his nerves crackle with static. And every now and then he finds himself focusing on Dean’s lips, replaying their kiss in detail. “I…” Castiel sighs, “I _ want _ to accept this but I… I’m working against years of being told _ things _ about people like you. I can’t promise anything happening overnight but I _ can _ swear on everything I hold dear that I want to _ fix this _.”

Dean chuckles, frightening Castiel further. “Castiel… you can’t _ fix _ anything. Me… _ us _… you can’t fix what wasn’t broken.”

“No,” Castiel tries to grab Dean’s wrist again, “Dean, please. You’re more than who you like. It’s not that important.”

“It is to me,” Dean says, tearing himself away. He stands, shuffling towards the door. “I know we can’t go back to what we were before but I’ll try and keep it professional when I see you…”

All his fears attack his mind, tearing and clawing at his hope. He watches Dean slowly walk out of his life, and it sends him into a panic. Frantically Castiel rises and rushes towards the other man, acting without thought.

Castiel spins him, tugs Dean close and crashes their lips together.

Dean stiffens in his touch, frozen while Castiel kisses him. On the other hand Castiel’s eyes slip shut as the warmth he missed slowly washes over him again. He moans, the hand not holding Dean’s wrist trailing upwards to tangle with Dean’s hair.

That snaps the other man from is daze. He pushes Castiel away, “What the fuck was that?”

Castiel pants, heat pooling in his belly. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Why did you kiss me?”

“I did,” Castiel says, fingers tapping his lips. A giddy smile burns bright like a supernova, instantly fading into a frown as the realization sinks in. “I kissed you…” he continues, stumbling backwards, “I… I’m not gay. I just didn’t want you to leave so I… I did what felt right. What felt… _ nice _?”

For the first time that night the fog clouding Dean’s features part and gifts Castiel with its light. “Do you… want to sit down?”

Castiel nods and allows Dean to lead him towards the couch. They sit hand in hand, Dean brushing his thumb across Castiel’s knuckles.

“I remember what it felt like to kiss my first boy,” Dean starts, pulling Castiel out from his panicked confusion, “I mentioned it before, when I told you about living in that halfway house for boys?” He remembers. “Anyway,” Dean laughs, “I didn’t tell you everything… like how Robin was this cute boy who I met when I snuck onto his property to fetch a baseball. That after he found me stuck in his hedges and made fun of me he invited me inside to show me his comics. We spent weeks getting closer until one night, when we were listening to Dark Side of the Moon and sharing a joint, he kissed me. Then I kissed him. And we made out. All my life I felt… I felt so lost. Like I wasn’t living up to who I should be. But the second he put his lips on mine I found exactly who I was meant to be.”

“And you knew you liked boys,” Castiel says, “_ Only _ boys.”

Dean shrugs. “I thought there was one girl but it ended up being gas…”

Castiel shoves him, snorting. “Was that all it took? One kiss to get you back to your normal self?”

“Possibly,” Dean says, leaning closer, “who knows what would happen if there were… more?”

The next time Dean kisses him Castiel accepts it. Dean’s hands glide up his face, settling on either side of him. Castiel rests a hand on Dean’s knees, the other clinging to his shoulder. All the awkwardness, anger, fear, and confusion drift away as Castiel basks in the glory of Dean’s embrace. Accepts the sacrament of Dean’s pure emotion on his tongue and allows it to fill every crack inside of him until they glow golden.

Castiel breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against Dean’s. “I’m not gay,” he whispers.

“Then what’s this?” Dean asks.

“I’ve never liked boys,” Castiel tells him, “but you I… there’s no other explanation for what this is. What exists between us. I didn’t know… and when I did, I kept lying to myself… but _ this _is…”

“Nice?”

“Better than nice.”

They kiss again, Castiel leaning backwards. Dean settles on top, scooting forwards so Castiel can bend his knee in the open space between Dean’s legs. With only a thin piece of fabric protecting Dean’s ass from his denim-covered crotch Castiel grinds into it instinctively. And again to chase the rush of pleasure that followed. His dick hardens against him.

His nerves return.

He stops, shuddering for control. “This is going too fast,” Castiel says, “We can’t… we shouldn’t…”

“I know.”

“I wouldn’t know what to do.”

“I can show you.”

Castiel kisses Dean again, with enough force and passion to bruise his lips. “I need to take this slow.”

“I can do slow,” Dean says, “as long as I’m doing it with you.”

Dean and Castiel trade a few more lazy kisses, soaking in each other’s attention to make up for all the time they spent apart. Finally, after one last kiss, Dean stands and helps Castiel do so, too.

“I should get going.”

“Probably for the best.”

They walk hand in hand towards the door, both grinning. Castiel pauses, turning to him. “Do you want to come over tomorrow? The kids miss you.”

Dean’s smile stretches wider. “I’d like that. Have to sort out a few things with my staff but… yeah, after.”

“I look forward to it.” Stealing a quick peck Castiel races away before Dean could retaliate.

He bounds towards his car, vibrating with an energy he hadn’t felt in years. Like his body shed decades off his body and he’s left as a teenager. Except when he finds his reflection in the rearview mirror the same crow’s feet and wrinkles greet him.

And reality crashes down on him.

In Dean’s arms it was easy to forget about the outside world. Without their support the anxiety strikes unprovoked. Thoughts of what would happen if people found out. If his kids learned about his and Dean’s shift in their relationship. If his family took one look at him and could guess where his lips were. Could tell they were on Dean.

_ Dean _… Castiel only need his name to appear in his mind to ease all his worries.

While he hasn’t had much experience with this sort of relationship, Dean has. And following Dean’s lead Castiel is sure they can make it work. The fear might be present, always hanging over head.

But Dean is worth the risk.


	16. Two Cherries

Castiel primps in his mirror, combating his relentless cow lick with a fine-toothed comb. He growls as his hair disregards any attempt he makes to temper its rebellion. Flinging the comb into the sink, he glares at his reflection.

“It’s just dinner with Dean,” he mutters, “you’ve done it before… why would tonight be any different?”

He knows why. Every other dinner pales in comparison to the enormity of tonight. His and Dean’s first date. A hangout more romantic than any previous one they’ve shared.

Dean suggested it a few weeks after their reconciliation. They shared a glass of wine in the kitchen late one night, trading kisses while Castiel put clean dishes away. During a very intense session when the sink finally emptied, an interruption shuffled in. His son called from the archway, startling them.

Castiel stiffened, hands moving from Dean’s shoulders to his face. “I don’t see anything,” he said, pulling his eyelids wide, “Are you sure there’s an eyelash there?”

“Uh, yeah…” Dean played along, “It’s stabbing me, I can feel it…”

“Why don’t you go cup some water and blink into it - flush it out.” Sending Dean off to his faux task, Castiel turned to Jack. “Everything okay, Jack?”

Jack pouted, rubbing a tiny fist into his eye. “Can’t sleep…”

“Can’t sleep?” Castiel sighs, “Any specific reason?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I close my eyes but nothing's happening… is that bad?”

“No,” he said, crouching until he was level with his son. “I think what it means is that you shouldn’t have had that _ extra _ slice of pie.” Castiel spoke loud enough so Dean heard, the other man ducking his head further into the sink. During dinner Jack pled for more dessert, but Castiel held firm. At least until Dean played footsie with him and swayed his decision. Now they all paid for it.

Dean hurried back over, face dripping with water. “You know what always helped me when I had too many sweets?”

“More sweets?”

He waved Castiel’s sarcasm away, smirking. “Some warm milk. You want that Jack?”

Jack grinned, gaps on display. “With cookies?”

“No,” Castiel said, standing, “only the milk. The _problem_ is the sweets .” He walked over to the fridge, “Dean, can you dump the water in the kettle? Thank you.”

They heated up some milk for Jack to enjoy and sat with him until he finished. All the while Dean shared stories from his past - Castiel providing commentary when appropriate. Midway between a story where Dean carried Sam to the hospital on his bike, Jack let loose a ferocious yawn.

“I think someone is finally ready for bed,” Castiel said, ruffling his son’s hair.

Jack whined, “I wanna hear the end of the story!”

“I can always finish it tomorrow Jack,” Dean told him, “More important you go to sleep, 'kay?”

Castiel helped him from his stool. “You want me to walk you up?”

“No,” he sighed, “I can do it myself. Thank you, dad… Dean.” Jack shuffled away, the two men waiting until they could no longer hear his footfalls. When in the clear, Castiel collapsed against the other man with a sigh.

“That was close,” he said, “he almost saw.”

“Good save with the eyelash thing,” Dean said, pressing a kiss to his crown, “I was _not_ ready with an excuse.”

Castiel huffed a smile. “Yes, well… I might not have experience with a secret _homosexual_ relationship, but I _do_ know how to hide overly affectionate displays from my children.”

“Kids walked in on you and Kelly?”

“We were so lucky Claire had the flu… she was always so perceptive as a child she would have seen through our very flimsy excuse otherwise.”

Dean nodded, mussing up Castiel's hair with the motion. “Guess I'll have to take a day and figure out some excuses just in case. Although... as much as I love Claire and Jack,” he said, “I would like to spend time with you… _ alone _.”

Castiel agreed wholeheartedly. It seemed since their passionate reunion finding time to share by themselves was few and far between. Castiel's funk cleared, thankfully in time for the worst part of his year. Tax season descended with a fury since this was the first the people of Lebanon had their own 'personal' accountant. All the stragglers who waited to file their taxes descended on his house like buzzards. They followed their own schedule - interrupting him at the diner and at night in his home. Ignoring the numerous signs he posted on his door telling clients to not disturb him during off-hours.

The diner was already hard enough to navigate with their new relationship not including his bump in business. He wanted to touch Dean constantly, have his focus locked only on him. But it wouldn’t be good for his business. No one would disturb them in their office, except it was no place for what they planned. The only time they ever made out in his office ended with him bruising his elbow from the cramped quarters.

Dean’s house was off-limits until further notice. Sam hadn’t reacted well to Dean’s easy forgiveness and Castiel knew it would take time for the younger Winchester’s fury to cool. It all came from a place of love. He reminded himself this with every parking ticket.

Times when it looked like Castiel’s clients wouldn’t swoop down and steal him away were always spent with those most important to him, Dean and his children gathered close inside his house. And while they had their fun, Dean and Castiel couldn’t even hold hands until the quiet of the night. It became frustrating very quickly.

Especially since they _still_ found themselves interrupted.

“We should go out,” Dean decided, lacing their fingers together.

Castiel snorted, squeezing his hand. “Really? Because that worked so well the first time…”

“Hey, that’s because I was stupid enough to agree to a double date and be your _ wingman _. All because I couldn’t say no to your dumb face...”

“You _ like _ this dumb face.”

“It’s very challenging though,” Dean grinned, kissing his cheek, “don’t know how many times I have to swallow my vomit…”

Leaning closer into Dean’s side, Castiel considered Dean's suggestion. Sobered up the longer he thought about it. “How would going out be any easier?” he asked, “We can’t be affectionate outside our homes lest everyone find out.”

“What if it didn’t matter if everyone found out?”

His heart leapt into his throat. He turned to face him, “I can assure you it would matter _ very much _ if my family knew what we were doing.”

Dean frowned, brows pinching above his eyes for a beat before they rose in understanding. “No, no! Not like - I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, “What I was trying to go for is, like, what if we went out to a place where _ nobody _ knew our name.”

Castiel skewed his head to the side. “Tell me more…”

The restaurant was three hours from Lebanon in the heart of New Haven. Which meant Castiel needed to be ready much earlier than he would like. An advanced leave time also conflicted with his panic attack, meaning he double booked it with his window to get dressed.

He nearly cried trying to decide whether or not to wear a tie.

In the end Castiel feels his outfit looks great. The cerulean blazer compliments his eyes and the light-washed jeans show he doesn’t expect Dean to do too much. Although if Dean showed up in a three-piece tuxedo Castiel would be severely underdressed. Then Castiel would need to explain how he thought their date would unfold and somehow offend him - because Castiel's foot would find its way into his mouth. After being severely cut down in size from Dean's harsh words and having him leave in a huff, Castiel would slowly crumble and die, orphaning his children.

A knock startles him from his reflection. Claire yells through the door, “Dean’s here.”

“Can you keep him busy?”

“Aren’t you done yet?”

He swallows past his nerves. “I need another minute or two.”

She sighs, stomping away to chat with Dean. Castiel uses the extra cushion of time to hype himself up further for their date. Mumbling confidence until he believed in the words he said. When he can stand straight without the support of his sink, Castiel knows he’s ready.

Dean and Claire’s conversation carries up the stairs, discussing her plans for the night.

Since he and Dean would be gone for most of the day, his kids made plans for their Saturday. Jack already left for his sister Anna’s house. He and Sam were having their own little sleepover to make up for the fact that he was barred from _Claire’s_ slumber party.

“...gonna be watching movies, order pizza, work on this _ huge _ project and maybe play a game or something,” she tells Dean, leaning against the bannister.

Dean chuckles, “Sounds like you’re gonna have a lot of fun.”

Castiel chooses to cut in then. “Not too much fun though,” he says, stepping down, “When we get back it better be just _ girls _ in here. No boys.”

Claire sneaks a peek at Dean, fighting back a grin. “Don’t worry, dad. I can promise you there will be _ no boys _.”

He doesn’t like her tone, nor the way Dean winks. Like there’s a little secret between them. Castiel almost asks what they mean when he feels a slight tug on his jacket.

Dean smiles at his wardrobe, fixing the upturned collar. “This is really nice on you,” he says, “fits well.”

Castiel mirrors his expression, scanning Dean’s own choices for the evening. He dressed much fancier than him as he feared, a red tie hidden underneath a black sports coat. His black slacks were pressed nicely, with shiny leather shoes making Castiel’s boots look scuffed in comparison. “You look snazzy,” Castiel says, brow arched and heart crawling up his throat, “should I change?” 

“No,” Dean tells him, wincing, “I… probably went overboard. You’re fine.”

Another question pops into his head, only he can’t ask it with an audience. He pulls away from Dean so he can expedite their exit. “Claire,” he starts, “I’ve left money on my dresser upstairs for the pizza, and if you need any extra don’t be afraid to dip into my emergency stash on the nightstand. If you need anything, don't hesitate to call your Aunt Anna, Uncle Gabriel and - if you’re desperate - your grandmother.” Castiel places his hands on Claire’s shoulders, softening his expression. “I want you to have fun tonight, okay? But don’t feel the need to give into peer pressure if it presents itself.”

“God, dad,” Claire huffs, “this isn’t some afterschool special…” Still she jumps forward and quickly captures him in a hug. “You have fun tonight, too. Stay out as _long_ as you need.”

The thought that Claire knew what they were doing breeches the calm waters of his mind. He forces it into the dark waters of his consciousness, not willing to deal with it now. Castiel kisses her forehead and moves towards the door as Dean bids his own farewells, following him towards the Impala.

Once they’re inside Castiel slips his hand over Dean’s on the gear shift. “Hey.”

“Hey yourself,” Dean says, blushing. He bites his lip, staring at his chest. “Excited?”

“Yes, but also a little nervous. You?”

“A _ lot _ of nervous.”

“Really?” Castiel asks, “Dean… you don’t have anything to be nervous about. It’s just _ me _.” His own anxiety lessens hearing Dean admit to his own fears. Castiel finds himself repeating the confidence boosters from the bathroom, looping in his head. “We’re hanging out in a different setting is all.”

“No,” Dean sighs, flipping his hand to tangle their fingers together, “No we aren’t hanging out. This is a _ date _.”

“Well I would hope so…” His joke unable to lift the frown marring the other man’s face, Castiel leans closer and tips his chin so Dean looked at him. “Yes, this is a date. Have you never… been on a date?”

“I have!” Dean yelps, flushing. Turning away from Castiel, Dean hits his head against the headrest. “I’ve been on lots of dates with… with people I wasn’t so much interested in. So I don’t really count those. Which means… there’s an argument that _ this _ is… _ technically _… my first date.” He shuts his eyes, lips curling into a sneer like he braced for a surprise blow.

Castiel only frowns at him.

After a long beat of silence, Dean blinks an eye open and glances at him. “What?”

“What?” he asks, “Did you… want me to say something?”

“You’re not going to?”

“What’s there to say?”

“I mean I’m in my thirties and I’ve admitted I’ve never been on a date,” Dean scoffs, “That’s pretty strange.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “I think you’re forgetting that I’ve never been on a date with a man, either. This is my first date as much as it is yours. Actually… you’re a lot of firsts for me.” He smiles, checking the area. It’s pretty barren, so Castiel sneakily presses his lips to Dean’s cheek. “And the point of firsts is to have something to look back on fondly. Let’s make this a night to remember.”

Dean brushes his fingers against the spot Castiel kissed, smile returning easily. A warmth blossoms within Castiel’s chest, knowing he did that. He squeezes Dean’s hand one last time and lets go.

“Yeah,” Dean says, shifting into drive, “this is gonna be fun.”

* * *

Castiel stares at the menu, trying to summon up the same confidence he inspired in his bathroom and Dean's car. He might have went overboard when he didn’t need to, draining his supply. Now when he needed it most his reserves were tapped dry.

Even Dean’s face couldn’t inspire any strength inside him to reach across the table and hold his hand again.

The drive to New Haven was long but entertaining. Dean cranked the radio up high and together they belted to the songs they knew. For those they didn’t either he or Dean made up the words and tried to match the melody. Castiel laughed so hard his chest burned when Dean sang, “With a taste of your lips I’m on a ride… your pants my hands slipping under!” When he recovered his breath Castiel risked their lives to kiss Dean on the lips.

It was a brief press of lips. The real danger came when Dean refused to look at the road after, too busy staring at him. Green eyes shining like the sun was trapped there instead of setting behind them. Then the car started swerving and Castiel forced the other man to pay attention to him. Dean snuck glances whenever he could for the rest of the ride over.

They pulled into New Haven as the orange gave way to purple. “Hey,” Dean said, “could you open the glove box?”

“Why?”

“That’s where I put the directions for this place we’re going,” he told him, “I’m gonna need you to be the navigator.”

Castiel dug for the print-outs, finding Mapquest papers wedged between a first aid kit and Dean's registration. He read the pages off, briefly fighting with Dean when he turned a block too early. As they argued Dean kept driving, and they got incredibly off course he needed to pull over so they could ask for directions. A kind local pointed them in the right direction, and Dean found the restaurant in time for their reservation.

Although parking meant they were a few minutes late.

“You could have used the valet,” Castiel said, walking into the restaurant.

Dean, close at his heels, scoffed. “And let some underpaid twerp take my Baby for a joyride? Not likely.”

“Well I hope it was worth it.”

“Relax Cas,” Dean waved his concerns away, “we’re still within the fifteen minute window. We didn’t lose our reservation.”

Castiel tracked a waiter in his periphery. Studied his stern expression and severe style of dress. That coupled with the dim lighting and extravagant decor didn’t bolster Dean’s assurance. “For your sake I hope so,” he said, “Why don’t you see to our seat. I’m going to see how Jack’s doing.”

Dean nodded, dipping in quickly to wrap his arm around his waist to hug him. Mouth hot against his ear, he whispered, “Don’t take forever.” Then they parted, Dean on line for the hostess while Castiel stalked over to the row of phones affixed opposite the bathrooms.

Anna answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Anna?” he started, “it’s me, Castiel. I was checking up on Jack.”

“Hi Cas,” Anna said, “Jack’s doing well… he and Sam are cleaning up for dinner. They spent most of the day squirting each other with water guns and throwing water balloons. When I went outside to fetch them they were dripping with more mud than water…”

“I apologize if Jack tracked any inside.”

“No need. I hosed them good before they walked in. Followed ‘em with a mop.” She sighed, “How’s your night shaping up?”

“Me and Dean just arrived at the restaurant.”

“And you thought you’d call to check up that your crazy sister wasn’t dangling your son from the second story window?”

He chuckled, leaning against a nearby counter. “No, I trust that you wouldn’t let him slip from your grip.”

“That’s exactly the kind of affirmation I needed in my parenting skills.”

“Glad I could provide it,” he said, turning to see Dean follow a waitress towards their table, “Listen, I have to go. Could I bother you for another favor?”

“I mean you’ve already asked so much from me, Castiel.”

“After dinner can you call to check up on Claire?”

Anna hummed a dubious melody, Castiel imagining the epic eye roll accompanying her. “She’s a teenager Cassie, she’s _ fine _ . You’re only going to make it so you’re coming home to an _ annoyed _ teenager.”

“Then don’t make it seem like I asked you to call,” he told her, “Tell Jack I love him, and thank you again.”

“Fine, fine,” she sighed, “go enjoy your free meal.” He said he would, then hung up the phone. Their lie was that Dean entered a contest to dine for free at this restaurant and invited Castiel along. A gift to celebrate his freedom from tax season. Everyone bought the cover with no question, thankfully.

Castiel navigated the tables to where he and Dean were seated for the evening. As he approached, he noticed the waitress chatting animatedly with Dean. Her eyes were too focused for someone with a professional interest.

Jealous possessiveness kindled within him, enough that when he arrived Castiel laid his hand down on Dean’s shoulder. “Sorry for the delay,” he said, “everything’s fine.”

“Good to hear,” Dean said. He jerked his thumb to their waitress, “I was just telling Maggie here about my ride. She saw us drive in during her smoke break.”

“It’s a gorgeous car,” Maggie nodded, “My dad had a muscle car when I was growing up. This cherry red GTO. Never let anyone that wasn't him drive it, when I got my license he bought me this real lemon. Sweet gesture but _ not _ what I was looking for.” She bit her pen, glancing at Dean. “What I wouldn’t give for the chance to hear that engine purr…”

Castiel squinted, forcing a smile. “I’m sure you’ll get your chance one day,” he said. The instinct to mark his territory came to mind. A kiss would signal to Maggie exactly what their dinner was. Except as his head twitched closer to Dean’s, he felt the force of every eye in the place turn their way. Under the scrutiny of an audience, even one so anonymous, he changed his course. Instead of a kiss, Castiel dragged his hand down Dean’s arm in a caress. Squeezing his elbow before taking his seat.

Maggie’s eyes shifted between them. Though muddled and open to interpretation, Castiel felt assured she knew to bark up a different tree.

“We’ll need time to look over the menu,” Castiel said, “But for now can you bring us a bottle of wine?”

“...Any preferences?”

“Chardonnay,” he said, “something within the sixty to eighty dollar range is fine.”

She nodded, lips pursed tight. “Gotcha.” Maggie left with a sway to her step. Not that Dean noticed, too busy gaping at Castiel.

“Dude,” he whispered, “what was that all about?”

“What was what?”

“You got this look in your eye,” he said, “and your face… it got all _ smitey _.”

“Smitey?”

“What did the poor girl do to you?”

Castiel blinked, a breathy laugh trapped in his throat. “For real? You didn’t notice?”

Dean shook his head. “Notice what?”

“She was flirting with you.”

His gaze widened considerably. “What? No…” Dean glanced behind him where Maggie was. “No,” he said again, “she was being nice. Interested in my car -”

“Maggie certainly was interested in something,” Castiel huffed, “don’t think it was your _ car _…”

He tried focusing on his menu. Only the prickling sensation of a watchful stare distracted him immensely. Castiel looked up to find Dean smirking at him. “What?”

Dean leaned forward, grinning wickedly. “You were _ jealous _…”

Castiel blushed, indignant at the accusation. Moreso because Dean struck the nail exactly on its head. “Why shouldn’t I be?” he fired back, “You came here with _ me _ for a date. It wouldn’t be much of one if the waitress kept trying to slip you her number throughout the meal.”

Snorting a laugh, Dean lifted his menu to hide his face. Castiel glared at the tactic, forcing the menu down again. “What’s so funny.”

“That you’re the possessive type, Cas,” Dean said, “Seeing you get all hot and flustered… it’s turning me on. Makes me wanna know what would happen if she actually worked up the nerve to ask me out.”

Castiel’s mouth thinned into a line. “Would you think it was cute if the tables were turned?”

Dean’s good mood evaporated instantly. His hands flew together, fingers wringing themselves. “You already saw me jealous, Cas. I don’t get possessive… I get _ mean _. It’s not a pretty sight.”

He remembered exactly what Dean alluded to. Their time at the Roadhouse played, flashbacks of Dean’s dour mood over the entire evening. Another memory of Dean that made sense now, with the added context of his crush. Although he apologized profusely ever since, and they spent hours discussing that night and what it meant early on in their relationship, being reminded of how Dean acts under the sway of a green-eyed monster continues to shock him.

Castiel relaxed in his seat, sighing. “I… I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t mean to bring that up." More words well up inside, wanting to burst free. Things he hasn't said that would be better appropriate any other time than a first date. Except they spill from his mouth regardless. "And I apologize for dragging you to the Roadhouse all those weeks ago.”

“Cas, you don’t gotta -”

“I do,” he continued, “There are… a lot of things I need to apologize for, I need to make up for. And I’m not doing a great job of it by sniping at you for something you can’t control. You’ve been pining for me from afar for so long… I want to make each day you spent longing for me worth every second.”

Dean’s smile unfurls, and he reaches forward to grab Castiel’s hand. “You already do, Cas. But… thank you.”

Maggie returns with the bottle and two glasses, eyeing their hands with a bland expression. Castiel tugged himself free a second too late. She set the glasses down and began pouring. “Have you had time to figure out what you’re going to order?”

Castiel cleared his throat. “Not exactly.”

“...I’ll give you some more time, then.” She left in a hurry over towards the next table.

Dean chuckled. “Don’t think you have to worry about Maggie anymore.”

Rolling his eyes, Castiel picked up his menu again. “Let’s figure out what we’re eating. If she comes back and we don’t know, I bet she’ll spit on our food.”

“Romantic. This is _ exactly _ what I spent all those days and nights imagining…”

Castiel folded his menu in a huff, peeking at the way Dean’s face fell somewhat before locking his eyes onto the leather booklet in his grip.

They don’t talk as they decide on their meals for the night. Meaning Castiel can use the time to, instead, overanalyze every little detail of Dean’s action. Wonder if he truly forgives him for his outburst. Doubt the moments he placated him. Fear that Dean realizes Castiel might not have been ready for this.

The appeal for tonight was being surrounded by strangers. Castiel flinched away from Dean’s touch when Maggie startled them, someone he wouldn’t mind knowing about their inclinations. His fingers twitch against the leather booklet, wanting to return to the comfort of Dean’s hand in his.

He imagines it all going wrong. Someone seeing and feeling big enough to step in and chew them out for deviancy. Maybe it was a regular Lebanonite who had the same idea as them, and stumbling upon the youngest Novak and the diner owner wasn’t what they imagined when they planned their dinner. Or, unrealistically, police barging in and arresting them for public indecency. Treating them like common criminals as they dragged them from the room in a complete spectacle. Patrons watching with disgust and amusement like at a carnival.

Usually when his thoughts spiral in such a way he would rest his head on Dean’s shoulder or ask for a kiss, a reminder that the bond between them was natural and _not_ deviant. Voice lost, Castiel cannot ask for the regular comfort. His demons claw at him, defenseless.

Dean puts his menu down, sighing. “Where the hell is she?” he grumbles, “I’ve been ready to order for ten minutes...”

Startled from his thoughts, Castiel skews his head. “Has it been that long since she was last here?”

“It’s been thirty minutes…” Dean spots Maggie and flags her over. Her shoulders sag when she notices Dean’s hand, and she shuffles over.

“Yes?”

“We’d like to place our order?” he says, glancing at the menu. “I’ll have the filet mignon, medium rare?”

“Okay,” she turns bland eyes to Castiel, “And you?”

He panics, scanning the menu. “Can I have the salmon? Sauce on the side?”

Maggie writes it down, scratching the order onto the page quickly. Finished she takes their menus, fighting Castiel a bit. His fingers unknowingly latched onto the menu, and he had trouble parting with it.

She leaves, and they have no more barriers.

Dean sips at his wine, staring at him. “You picked a good day for fish,” he says.

“I did?”

“Yeah,” his foot slides against Castiel’s leg, the corners of his mouth lifting, “Friday’s usually when they get the shipment in. So it should still be fresh today. Although not as fresh as yesterday… so it’s a good day. Not a _great_ day.”

All throughout the conversation Dean’s leather tip traced shapes on Castiel’s calf, sparking heat through the rough denim. Castiel takes a healthy amount of wine to parch his burning thirst.

“That’s… that’s good to know,” he chokes out. He drinks again, using the reprieve to psych himself up. Remind himself that they’re hidden by a long table cloth, and that the couple to their left can’t see what they do. Although they keep glancing their way like they could.

“So,” Dean leans forward playfully, “I’ve been keeping this under my hat until tonight, but… you’ll never guess what happened at the diner the other day…”

They slip into conversation, telling each other little anecdotes from their week. It feels almost like normal and Castiel thanks Dean for trying to salvage their dinner by making it resemble every other they've shared. Castiel tries, but with varying levels of success.

Dean keeps his foot running up and down Castiel’s leg, not moving farther along than that. He takes a leap, though, during a story about Castiel’s sister-in-law. Castiel describes the mess Jo made while baking for a charity bake sale and in between her pulling the soufflé from the oven and crying after Sarah dropped a bombshell on her that deflated her hard work, Dean’s finger taps at his knuckles. Without waiting for a response Dean lays the tips of his fingers over Castiel's nails.

They don't hold hands in the most conventional sense. To the untrained eye passing over their table it would look like an illusion or a possible mistake. With how calm Dean looks, drinking his wine with a smirk, no one could understand the tremendous move he made. Nor see how anxious Castiel felt since the ball flew into his court. Posture relaxed, Dean lays his hand over Castiel’s and drinks his wine. Not mentioning it at all.

There was no mention of what Dean did. He asked a follow-up question about what Castiel's brother thought of his niece's news. Castiel forgot what he was saying before, too focused on Dean's fingers. Debated whether or not to bring it up. Castiel decided not too, since he believed it would sour the gesture significantly. He ignores the sweat pooling at his lower back and focuses instead on the warmth spreading through his hand. “And,” he continues, breath hitching somewhat, “Michael is still dealing with a bad case of laryngitis, having fried his vocal chords from yelling at Sarah and her boyfriend - sorry, _fiancé_."

“For real?”

He nods. “Sarah and David had to spend the rest of their visit at my parents’ house. Apparently the surprise announcement was not everything they imagined it would be.”

Dean chuckles, “Did she think they were gonna be happy their daughter was getting married?”

“I mean, she would have had a better chance if either of them had met the boy before. Apparently they fell in love during their comparative religions class and knew there was no other person for them… They plan to get married in the summer between semesters.”

“I mean at this rate why wait? Just go to the courthouse....” Dean shakes his head, sighing. “Straight people are wild… _hilarious_.”

“I’ll admit it was funny hearing this, too,” Castiel says, “Until Jo dragged Sarah to my house and used my lifestyle as an example of what happens when someone rushes into marriage.”

Dean scowls, fingers pressing harder against his. “Wow, what a shitty move.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve been brought up as an example,” Castiel sighs, “I’m used to it. When you are the only sheep to break from the flock you’re used to teach the others what happens on the other side… I’m happy for all my deviance from the status quo.”

Clearing his throat, Dean turns his head to hide his face. “Yeah… it’s pretty fun not being normal.”

Castiel’s heart stutters at the misstep. For the upteenth time Dean’s good mood recedes because of his actions. Even when relaxed Castiel ruins the moment.

Reacting instinctively, Castiel pulls his hand from underneath Dean’s and hides both in his lap. Dean startled, frowning deeper at how Castiel left his touch. He wants to say something else, but Maggie returns with two plates.

She places their respective orders in front of them, “Will you be requesting anything else?”

Castiel’s mouth thins at his meal. The salmon is the size of a juice box, and the accompanying vegetables barely enough to to hide the plate’s color. The sauce was held in a tiny porcelain bowl on the plate. Dean’s meal seemed as appetizing as his. Filet mignon, already a small cut of meat, was practically shriveled due to the chef's supervision.

Dean feels the same as him, poking his dinner. “Can we get the check?” he asks, “This won’t take long for us to finish…”

Maggie nods, dipping away to fetch it.

Although appetite mostly gone, Castiel powers through to eat his salmon. It’s the least he can do to end their date on a high note. From the disappointment shadowing Dean’s face, Castiel knows it is not enough.

He should be doing something to turn Dean’s mood around, dig out of the hole and turn it into a mountain. A million ideas race through his mind, ranging from simple to extreme, on how Castiel could brighten Dean’s expression. So many race past that, in the end, he chooses nothing.

They finish their dinners and leave in silence, a healthy distance between them.

* * *

Driving through Lebanon on a spring night should be peaceful and relaxing. Windows down, breeze ruffling his hair, Castiel can’t stop the anxiety from crushing his chest.

All the way back from New Haven Dean and Castiel barely spoke, meaning the three hours felt much longer than they did going to. In the private cabin of Dean’s car, a place he earlier felt safe to show affection, Castiel was too afraid to close the distance. Imagining false strangers watching them or that the pinch of Dean’s brow meant he needed space. 

He still feels like he made the wrong choice. That he should instead be wrapping Dean up in his arms and whispering apologies for such an awful night. The thought crosses that it would be easier if Dean was a girl…

But Dean isn’t, and he needs to make peace with that.

They turn a familiar when Castiel sees something that causes a lightbulb to pop up over his head. “Hey,” Castiel reaches for Dean’s wrist, “could you pull over?”

Silently Dean parks in an open space, casting a sad gaze to him. “What?”

“Do you think we can have milkshakes?”

Not expecting that, Dean’s face drops into bewilderment before swiftly shutting down once more. “Milkshakes?”

“I mean… we left before we could order dessert,” Castiel shrugs, “don’t dates usually end with a nightcap?”

Dean scoffs, “_ Good _ dates do…”

Castiel’s heart stutters at the muttered admission. He presses on, “Besides. This will help wash that fishy taste from my mouth.”

“You were the one who wanted salmon.”

“Please, Dean…?”

Sighing, the other man relents. They exit the car and advance towards Colette’s. Under the lamplight Castiel drifts closer to Dean. Setting his nerves ablaze Castiel twines their arms together, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Dean stares at him. “What are you doing?”

“Walking to the diner,” Castiel says, trembling voice betraying his cool facade, “What about you?”

“No, I mean…” Dean frowns, nervously looking around, “anyone could see us.”

“But they won’t.” Castiel attempts a smile, “They _ won’t _.”

Finally he says the right thing, Dean mirroring his expression. Although much dimmer than its usual glow, Castiel will take it. Basks in the small victory while Dean opens the diner. Flicking on the lights, they advance deeper into Dean’s establishment.

“It looks bigger when it’s empty,” Castiel says, trailing his hand from Dean’s elbow to his hand. This time he tangles their fingers together, delighting in how Dean’s neck burns into his hairline. “Reminds me of when Cain used to own it…”

“Good thing it’s almost never empty except for these moments,” Dean chuckles. Pausing by the counter, he turns to face Castiel. “Strawberry?”

“Yes, but…” he guides Dean to a stool, forcing him to sit despite protest, “you stay there.”

“Why? Can’t very much make milkshakes from here.”

“I guess that means _ I’ll _ have to make them.”

Dean’s eyebrows perch curiously halfway up his forehead. “Really?” he asks, “You think you can handle such a difficult task?”

Castiel huffs. “I’ve seen you do it a hundred times before.”

“That’s nine hundred short of mastering, Cas.”

“Shut up and tell me what flavor you want…”

He slips behind the counter, reversing their positions. Dean swings in and leans on the counter, telling Castiel to make him a vanilla milkshake. Directing Castiel on where to find the tools and ingredients that were put away.

“Be careful with the ice cream,” Dean warns, watching Castiel fiddle with the carton of vanilla, “one wrong swipe and you could cut yourself.”

“I’ve got this Dean!” He scoops a healthy amount and plops it into the blender, on top of the milk. Droplets fly out and stain Castiel’s shirt. Castiel sighs and carries on with his task, putting the cap on and blending the ingredients together. When Dean tells him it’s done, Castiel pours the drink into the waiting glass.

“Now comes the whipped cream,” Dean instructs, eyes shining with joy, “and don’t forget the cherries - _ two _ cherries.”

“Why two cherries? I've always wondered...”

“Because one time Sam was getting on me for not eating too many fruits or vegetables,” Dean says, dipping into the past, “he’d taken a health class and was on this real kick to get me to eat healthier. So after hearing his shit about my burger I asked the waitress for two cherries on my milkshake. Turned to Sam and said - see, double the serving of fruit! Kid didn’t like it… The joke just became a habit over time…”

“Huh, that’s different from what I thought.”

Dean bites his lip. “What was your guess?”

Castiel dangles the cherries between them, smirking. “They kind of look like testes, right?”

Caught off guard, Dean’s laugh echoes in the quiet space. He claps his hand over his mouth, ducking his face to hide the mirthful tears pricking his eyes. Castiel’s spirit soars at the sound of Dean’s laughter, giggling at the high it gives him.

While Dean recovers Castiel begins making his own milkshake. When it came time for the cherry, Castiel picked two as well, gently placing them on top the generous serving of whipped cream. He holds his milkshake towards Dean, “Two cherries.”

Dean clinks their glasses together. “Two cherries.”

They settle, sipping at their milkshakes. Across the counter Dean smacks his lips, moaning. “You got some serious skills there, Cas,” Dean says, “you ever consider leaving the accounting game and making milkshakes instead?”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “No but… I already spend so much time here as it is.”

“I could start you Monday? Show you the ropes.”

“But then what would you do, Dean?” Castiel asks, “The counter is your domain?”

“I can supervise,” he shrugs, “be an extra pair of eyes… set of hands… be close to you without this stupid counter dividing us…”

Castiel swallows a lump of strawberry and focuses on the lonely hand resting on the counter. His vision blurs save for that image, over defined so that he can count each individual freckle. Dean’s voice calls to him, but it sounds muted and far away.

He did it already, and he can do it again. Why his anxiety returned at this moment Castiel can’t answer, but he has to beat it into submission. There are no strangers, no judgmental waitresses, no friends or family around. It’s only them. In this little space they’ve carved for themselves. It’s only Dean and him and that’s what matters. _ Dean _ matters.

Steeling his nerves, Castiel slowly reaches forward and lays his hand over Dean’s, an imitation of the move practiced at the restaurant.

When his sight returns Castiel sees Dean frowning at him, worried. “I,” Castiel starts, licking his lips, “I know this isn’t the best example of a perfect date…”

Catching on immediately, Dean tries pulling away. “Cas…” 

Castiel won’t release him yet. “For either of us,” he continues, “it seemed like one thing led to another and… and _ I _ was at the root of it. I allowed myself to be swayed by the doubt that I tried so very hard to banish for just _ one _ evening. I said things and… _ did _ things that weren’t the best reflection of myself or my intentions. I can only ask that you forgive me…”

Dean shudders a breath, complexion pale under the harsh lighting. The longer he stays silent the weaker Castiel’s grip stays. When Dean drifts back Castiel can't follow.

He walks away, milkshake in hand, to the other side of the room. Castiel hisses a lonely breath as he collapses on the counter, forehead pressed against his fist. Tears threaten to spill over as he feels failure settle onto his back like a grand piano. Unprepared for his and Dean’s relationship to burn faster than a candle dipped in gasoline.

Suddenly the foreboding silence fades, replaced by a record scratch and heavy guitar strums.

Castiel straightens to see Dean by the jukebox, a soft expression stitched onto his face. His hand held open, waiting for Castiel to take it again. “Come over here,” he says.

He wastes no time, scurrying from behind the counter and over to Dean. Flying across the room, Castiel forgoes the hand and wraps his arms around Dean’s shoulders, sighing against his ear.

Dean follows his lead, tightening around his waist like a snug belt. With the soft crooning behind them, they begin to sway.

“I really am sorry,” Castiel whispers.

Shushing him, Dean says, “I know. Thank you for apologizing... _again_.”

“Thank you for accepting again.”

“It’s hard for people like us,” he shrugs, “Especially you… this is all so new. I was scared you were going to think this was too hard and decide it’d be easier to cut me loose.”

Castiel steps away, still holding onto Dean. “That would never be the easy choice. Not for me.”

“You don’t think we rushed into this?” Dean asks, “That maybe you need more time to think? To see if this is what you really want?”

Castiel presses a finger against Dean’s lips, cutting him off. “I’m _very_ new to this, like you said. I’m learning… will we have bad days? Yes… But will there be good days? Absolutely. I might not know much about… any of this. All I know is how I feel about you. And my heart wants you in whatever way you’ll have me…”

Dean breathes through a broken sob, grin flashing. They continue dancing, drifting away from the jukebox. “Promise?”

“I swear. I’ll swear on _ anything _…”

“Even on…” his eyes dart around until they latch onto something, “_ Cherries _?”

“Cherries?”

He plucks the candied fruits from his half-melted milkshake and holds it between them. “You said anything.”

Castiel smirks, sliding his hands away from Dean’s neck to his shoulders. “I swear, Dean… on these _ two _ cherries… that I won’t let myself be afraid of _ this _ any longer. If I feel it approaching I will tell you so we can face it _together_. Because like these cherries… we’re better as a pair.”

Dean chuckles. “I promise the same thing. If I start thinking you’d rather be somewhere else - with _ someone _ else… I give you the right to smack me upside the head until I'm back to my senses. Got it?”

“Can this extend into other instances?”

“Oh shove it, asshole.”

Staring at the cherries, Castiel asks, “What do we do now?”

Dean thinks, and while doing so brings their bodies closer. Aligns their crotches and makes it so their chests rest flushed against each other. “We should seal this somehow.”

“How do we do that?”

Tapping the cherries against his lips, Dean hums. Instantly lightning flashes in the green meadow of his eyes, and he smiles. “I’ll eat one, and you eat one,” Dean tells him, “And then we kiss.”

Castiel has no objections. He answers by leaning forward, stealing a cherry with his teeth. Biting it so the juices leak. Sucks on it as he closes his lips around it.

Cheeks hot, Dean hurries to do the same. Once the cherry is safely in his mouth he dips forward to kiss Castiel.

Their usual taste intermingles with that of the cherries, the sweetness of the maraschino adding another dimension to the toe-curling sensation of kissing Dean. Castiel places a hand against Dean’s face, thumb curling around his chin. Mouths opening for each other, they deepen their embrace. Every second that they kiss makes another nightmare of ‘what could happen’ disappear into the ether.

Nothing bad can happen as long as Dean and Castiel stay together. The outside world has no power when their lips touch. When his arms hold Dean, Castiel can’t remember ever thinking that love borne between the same sex was sinful. Dean tasted like what Castiel imagined God’s presence felt like. A calling he cannot turn away. A divine light filling his entire being, bring peace and comfort. An undeniable sense of rightness he never wants to escape from.

They kiss until their lungs burn. As they pant, foreheads pressed against each other, the two men keep swaying to the music. Rotating around the same four boxes in the empty diner. Anyone could look in, see them engaging in such an intimate display.

But no one will. For tonight there’s only Dean and Castiel and Colette’s.

For tonight, that’s all Castiel needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all folks!
> 
> ...or maybe not quite?
> 
> I mean this seems more like a beginning than an ending... what do you think?
> 
> If I were to write a sequel would you read? I mean I have the material (this was originally supposed to be much longer but due to procrastination I needed to make some edits...)
> 
> Let me know, and I hope you all had a blast reading this story! :D
> 
> UPDATED AUTHOR'S NOTE (also in the comments):
> 
> Oh I SO have been waiting to get to 100 kudos... because I promised myself that when it did I would thank each and everyone of you who read, who dropped a kudos, or took time to tell me how much you enjoyed my fic (and to support a sequel). This is one of the fics I'm most proud of, even if it's only HALF of what I originally planned.
> 
> In my author's note I mentioned how I had to make a few edits... The truth? It was a lot. Originally this was going to be a BEHEMOTH of a story - like 30 or so chapters. But 80% was due by early August and I started writing in July. And sleep deprivation wasn't helping either me nor my story. After a long chat with one of my best friends I decided to end the story here at Chapter 16. But all the material I had after? Didn't want it to go to waste!
> 
> ...And it won't! Because I read all your comments and will DEFINITELY be writing a sequel. Although not as next year's big bang like I was considering. Nope! Given Supernatural's epic three-month hiatus I figured I'd have to bide my time SOMEHOW.
> 
> I don't regret cutting my story off at the halfway point. It was all for the best. It gave me time to really focus on building these relationships and keeping track of the timeline. To fine tune and give you a really tight story. Plus if I stuck to my first outline the story would have been moving way too fast. I wanted it to span one school year except... that wouldn't have been giving the story justice. Making this two parts really gives me and the characters space to breathe. To develop relationships, explore more, and give you more fluff before I emotionally cap your kneecaps ;P
> 
> Again I want to thank everyone who has interacted with this story in someway, and who was touched by my writing. I encourage you to continue reading, dropping kudos, commenting, and definitely rec this to your friends.
> 
> Until we meet again for Colette's 2: Electric Boogaloo (jk that's definitely not the title).


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